Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Baker Street, specifically the flat situation, was different than it used to be. There was no longer a C flat, but a very much larger flat that had breathed through walls and doors, adding another bedroom, a full albeit small bathroom, some closet space, and now accommodated two grown men and a teenager. Sherlock still occupied the downstairs bedroom; John and Rosie had their own spaces upstairs. Of the three rooms, only the former military personnel kept the room neat, tidy, and completely organised. And the clean, orderly one fussed periodically at the others, knowing he had zero control over one of them, to be honest. Rosie listened and did clean when prompted, but mostly, John was skilled at choosing his battles, and often keeping her room clean, he let slide (though sometimes, he did close the door so he didn't have to look at it).

They've settled into a routine, now and then John going on random dates, and Sherlock still mocking those John dated. Mostly, Rosie didn't seem to mind, and of course, John kept it low-key, and she was engaged with school, a few good friends, and figuring out what being thirteen involved. It was the unusual woman who could tolerate more than one outing with the good Dr. Watson, and when one did manage to go for round three, it was as if the gloves came off for Sherlock. The deductions, severe, and the more personal, the better. 

John swore off dating, off women, and occasionally swore he was moving out. Although this threat happened more than once, in the end, he would either forget or decide one more try might be worth it. And he had very little inclination to put Rosie through a relocation.

So he would evaluate if it was worth the risk of moving out, of getting serious, of pursuing these things he thought he might want. It never was. And not that he was paying too much attention, but the last date was over a year previously.

Mostly, John was satisfied with his life, professionally a flexible clinic with some triage call now and then, done via telehealth or a simple audio phone call. Rosie, doing well in school, starting to consider an instrument, a sport, a vocal singing group. Her tribe included Mrs. Hudson, honourary grandmama, and Sherlock's parents, who doted on her and would spoil her if John didn't intervene. She would do an occasional outing with Molly, and would come back with froofy and frilly things, an occasional new fingernail colour, and one time Molly planned ahead with a pre-arranged surprise (fully endorsed by John) and they met at John's office, where one of his colleagues did a very professional, very tasteful, very safe ear piercing. Rosie, at thirteen, was beyond thrilled.

Sherlock and John co-parented, though they didn't call it that. Rosie called him Sherlock, John of course was papa. But it was a joint effort at times, especially once she got busier. Her mobile, a gift from Mycroft, had enough features to keep her happy while allowing for some parental controls so John could keep track of her location and her browsing. There seemed always something to coordinate, other parents to touch base with, various adults leaving messages, or Rosie herself interspersing every hundredth text or so with an actual call.

So when John's mobile rang, even from an unrecognised number, it wasn't necessarily that unusual.

Until it was.

++

"Hello?"

"This is Silvia, from the A&E at Chelsea and Westminster hospital. I'm looking to speak with John Watson."

The introduction, the premise never positive, and instantly John could feel the entirety of his stomach lurch. And drop. Oh god. "Speaking." John gripped the mobile, tension building in his hand, his head, his back. Home alone, he braced for what obviously was not a good notification. 

"I'm calling to let you know Rosamund Watson is a patient here. There was an automobile accident, and she was brought in by ambulance. They're working on her now, and the senior doctor here asked me to call you." Rosie had made plans after school to be with a friend, the parents were taking them shopping and then doing alleged homework together, then she would be - she was supposed to be - home for dinner. "Mr. Watson?"

The shock of the news, the sudden jolt of information, hit John like a sucker punch, and he took a deep and slightly painful breath. His skin tingled, heart pounding as he clutched the mobile. Then, almost automatically, John switched into crisis mode. "Is she okay? What are her injuries?"

"I don't have that information for you. Given her age, I do need permission from you to continue treatment. The emergency protocols allow us to do a lot, but we typically contact a parent as soon as possible."

"Yes. Of course," his fingers, cramped, shifting his hold, and he looked around, knowing he needed to get moving. Mobilise. "How long has she been there?" John pocketed his keys, wallet, and reached for his coat as he asked the question.

"Registration time was ... about fifteen minutes ago. We got your number from her mobile."

John heard that, understood that, and it hit him hard that Rosie didn't give the info. It was retrieved. Serious then, if she was unable. Or unwilling? "I'm leaving now." His mouth was dry, words coming clipped and tight. "So you don't have any information about the extent of her injuries at all? Is she conscious, do you know?"

"I'm sorry, all I can tell you is they're working on her, to get her stabilised. Come to the A&E registration when you arrive, and someone will help you."

"All right." He can't bring himself to say thank you before hanging up.

The flat looked empty, hollow, lifeless. Sherlock was somewhere, working a case with Lestrade. The stresses of his earlier shift at the clinic all seemed a lifetime ago. Taking a deep breath, he looked about once more before making a quick run upstairs. Rosie's room, part of the addition, was just as she'd left it - a jacket thrown on the floor, a discarded wardrobe option from the morning, the sheets partially pulled up, pillow askew. Inside, he reminded himself to be calm, rational. Doing so, he grabbed her empty backpack, the old one from last year, and inside placed some items: phone charger, fleece blanket, stuffed animal from her bed. As he worked, he pressed a speed dial on his mobile, Sherlock of course, and he was disappointed when it went immediately into a message. "The number you have dialed is not in service at this time, please check the number and dial again..."

He opened messages, cued up Sherlock's thread, hit the speaker, and spoke, "Hey, call me when you get this."

Undeliverable.

Going across to his own room, the old original tiny one, he did a similar gathering: sweater, charger, book though he knew he'd never open it. His feet were sure though rushed on the stairs back down. A few more items before leaving, he tossed in his refillable water flask, a few snacks from their kitchen. On the notepad on the desk, he wrote a quick message for Sherlock, if they couldn't connect by mobile:  Call me asap, Rosie's at Chelsea/Westchester, followed by his unreadable initials, JW.

It had been ninety seconds since hanging up from the hospital call. Since the only thing that mattered ... needed him.

The wait for a cab, though less than two minutes, seemed endless. The drive to the hospital, similar, measurable certainly but feeling interminable.

From the back of the cab, en route, he checked her location on the mobile (at the hospital) and Sherlock, who was off the grid completely, which was certainly inconvenient but not unusual exactly. He searched for and located the parents whom Rosie had been with, and sent off a benign text message, hey is everything okay? variety. Until he had further information, he certainly wasn't going to elaborate, and he didn't know if Rosie's friend had also been involved. He tried to call Sherlock again, and again was unsuccessful. He tried Greg Lestrade, a text message of more urgency, 'Have Sherlock call me ASAP' but the message remained unread and undelivered. He presumed then, that they were both somewhere that had insufficient mobile coverage. Beyond that, he stared out the window, trying to slow down his breathing, trying to keep himself from imagining the absolute worst.

The cab pulled up to the very doors of the A&E, John paid the driver, paying cursory attention to the amount, and entered the building. Behind the desk was a locked door, a gateway into the department. Off to her side, a security guard behind glass walls, viewing several departments, a central vantage point, at the door. The clerk had a computer open, several phones in front of her, wristbands and tags and other means of identification.

There were people waiting at the desk, and a triage system in progress. and John could barely stand it as one person in front asked about amenities in the cafeteria, needed explicitly written directions to get somewhere, and the one immediately in front of John wanted to expound on every non-emergent symptom that brought them in. When it was finally his turn, he said, "My daughter's in A&E. I got a phone call to come."

"Name?" Her fingers were poised over the keyboard.

"Watson. Rosamund."

"And you are?" Her fingers flew, a very quick entry, and she watched the screen.

"Her father. John Watson."

She nodded. John studied her face as she perused the information that came up, and he could see the very moment she spied the name. Then, she picked up the phone. "I have parent for Watson out front." Another pause, and the clerk nodded, hung up. "Someone will be right out to get you." She touched another few buttons, and a tag printed. She handed it to him, her voice perhaps a little softer, gentler. "You'll need to wear this while you're in the building." 

He barely looked at it, designating it that he was a visitor for Watson, his name and today's date, as he peeled it and stuck it to his lapel.

She pointed to the door, indicating that he should wait there, and began to talk to the person in line behind John. "What brings you in today?"

The door opened eventually, and a spritely little scrub-wearing person came to the entryway, beckoned him through. "I'm Dr. Kerns. Maddie." She reached out a hand to shake his, and indicated he should follow. John squelched down the immediate reaction to drill her with questions, to be already alarmed that a physician was already talking to him, rather than one of the nurses or techs.

"John Watson. Rosamund's father." The door to the intake area closed behind them, and he couldn't stop the plea. "Please, how is Rosie?"

She stopped in the hallway, a bit out of the main hallway in the A&E, and her expression was solemn. "She's in the CAT scanner now, or I would take you directly to her. Hallways good, better perhaps, quieter, believe it or not." Her words were quick, and she didn't wait. "So Rosamund was brought in a little over half an hour ago, she was involved as a restrained rear-seated passenger in a car, hit broadside by another large vehicle. When the ambulance arrived, they found her awake, eyes open, but she didn't talk to them when they asked. They had to cut away part of the car to get her out, and put a special collar around her neck --"

"Sorry to interrupt, I'm a physician, so ..."

Maddie smiled, nodded her head, and continued, "That's helpful, thank you. C-spine immobilisation. She has a significant head injury, a scalp lac on the right, contusion for sure. Likely concussed. Her hands must have been up, protecting her face at impact from flying glass, so there are some significant wounds along her arms, the back of her hands. Will get some xrays on the right one, a bit misshapen and likely fractured. While she's in CT, they'll dash into the radiology department for a few other images. Protocol for any significant traumatic injury."

"So awake. Responsive?"

"Purposeful but not interactive. Confused and agitated on scene. Appropriately withdraws to pain. But not talking. Protective reflexes are intact."

"Airway is okay? And vitals?"

"For the moment, yes. Breathing okay. Fast. Rest of her vitals, for the most part, yes, stable. Heart rate is up, blood pressure, a little low. Not uncommon."

"How long will they be in CT? God I really need to lay eyes on her."

"She just went over. And they'll do the trauma scan while she's there, so she'll be a little while yet."

John nodded, understanding that she was referring to the xrays taken of chest, abdomen, pelvis, and extremities as an overall precaution, searching for and ruling out injury. "What are you expecting the CT to show?"

Maddie smiled at him. "I think we'll let the radiologist give an official reading. I can't answer that, much as I'd like to." She tilted her head, indicating, follow me, and led John a few rooms down to one of their larger trauma bays. It occurred to him then, seeing the large room with so much emergency equipment at hand, that Rosie had been placed in a trauma bay capable of trauma resuscitation, and although he was not surprised, he nearly staggered with the realisation. "Have a seat. She'll be returning here when they're done. And I'll let you know what the labs show. When the CT is read, I'll come tell you." Her hand was warm as she reached out to steady him as John did sit down as she'd instructed. When John was finally alone, he took a very shuddering, very raggedy deep breath. His mobile remained quiet, though he woke it up, anxiously. The room told a story, as he looked around, to observe. Her clothes, cut off, were hastily shoved in a belonging bag that was next to him on the counter. Inside, her mobile, her crossbody bag, a few dots of what might have been blood, as were her trainers. Equipment wise, John took note of the packages from the IV starts, the empty wrapper from the IV fluid bag, the lab tubes on the counter, left there as remnants of whatever they'd already sent. The stretcher of course was missing, the portable monitor as well, and he tried to sit in the stiff plastic chair, but his nervous energy drove him to his feet again.

He tried again to locate Sherlock's GPS signal, found him still off the grid. He sent off another text message, 'call me,' in case that delivered first, as he tried not to think of MVA complications of adolescents, presentations of head injury, and the rest of the damage that they might find. Part of him was somewhat grateful that her hands would likely have protected her eyes, though it worried him about all of that too - scarring, fine motor issues, tendons ... He forced himself to stop. Pacing there in the room, he wondered about the driver, the other vehicle, Rosie's friend, and what had actually happened.

But mostly, he wanted information about his daughter. His Rosie.

And he wanted Sherlock. To help him navigate, to keep him from freaking out, to ask the questions John wasn't processing right now. The solitude, oppressive, heavy in a crisis, very unnerving. Laying his hand on her bag of clothes, he forced himself to take a few deep breaths while he waited.

Chapter Text

Sherlock, Lestrade, and a few others from NSY Sherlock would not consider worthy of remembering their names were in the basement of a tall, block-and-cement building, searching for identifying documentation and belongings. The crime, long ago committed, the body already removed to the morgue, and the area the murder had been committed was one of the stranger settings - a squatter living there but unrelated to either suspect or victim, items of clothing, paperwork, strange knick-knacks, and detritus of a nearly homeless existence screamed for discovery. Sherlock, truthfully, was overloaded with data, some of it conflicting, all of it fascinating, random sentimental accoutrements and a few diaries of rambling entries. His mobile, an extension of his data gathering abilities, was invaluable, and he snapped a few photos, occasionally with another item for size reference, and for a moment, on his knees, he set it aside. Another officer, gathering (useless) details and crime scene evidence, strode too close, stepped right on the center of his phone.

The sickening-sounding crack was immediately known, and Sherlock swatted the offending leg. "Idiot! Look what you've done!"

"Sorry."

"Lestrade!" Sherlock had called. "I'll need someone competent to assist."

The demand was mostly ignored, though Sherlock glared at the culprit until he did finally leave the area. For a time, there were no new discoveries, though deductions aplenty. Just, unfortunately, none of them would lead to the resolution of the mystery. As such, none of them paid much attention to a newcomer, arriving on fast feet, shoes pounding in quick succession until the person breached the doorway.

"Mr. Holmes?" The voice was insistent, though a little breathy from exertion, clear and strong.

"What is it?" Sherlock didn't look up initially, but then someone - Lestrade, one of the other idiots perhaps - cleared their throat. And the entire context of the name, the summons, changed. Framed in the steel doorframe was someone Sherlock had never seen before, but immediately identified as one of Mycroft's. And so he paused, wondering somehow at whatever led to their presence. To his being called for. In person. Another idiot Sherlock couldn't wait to lambaste, and he hoped the person complained loudly about it to Mycroft later. 

++

"Boss?" Anthea looked up from her computer screen, which was flashing an alert across the lower edge. "Boss?! You should take a look at this."

Mycroft did not express dissatisfaction with the prompt, but neither did he rush. They had a complicated, very technical alerting system, which occasionally fired a warning without cause, and often, upon review, deescalated quickly. Most of the time.

He slid in his expensive, dark brown leather chair over a few meters to view her screen, where a row of monitors stood in one of his inner offices. He leaned closer, reading to himself, considering the time stamp of the accident as less than ten minutes previously. The alert, almost instantaneous once Miss Watson's name was recorded. The alert was received from one of the ambulance companies data, responding to a serious motor vehicle accident with fatality, and one of the names submitted, involved, was one on Mycroft's notification registry.

"What is the name of the fatality?" Mycroft spoke out loud. "Fatalities?"

"Looks like there was at least one, pronounced on scene. One driver, one other gravely injured. Broadsided by a vehicle who ran a traffic signal. At least one passenger was taken to Chelsea and Westminster; perhaps ... God these reports should be better. It's hard to tell if Ms. Watson ... It's hard to tell the status of Ms. Watson." Her words tripped, knowing exactly who the passenger was to Mycroft and why the information alerted them as grade three, and she'd been unable to finish the one sentence, to speak of the unthinkable. Despite all the years of working with Mycroft, all the situations they'd navigated, she was still human after all. And she was one of the few who knew that underneath his facade, he was very definitely human as well. His family, his extended family, was certainly one of his pressure points. Mostly, he hid it fairly well.

"Pull up their GPS please. The lot of them, if you will."

"On it." And indeed, she'd been already loading that particular screen, knowing Mycroft would be requesting it. "Looks like two signals, one at the hospital. The other, presumably, en route." Pointing, she indicated the blips, clicked on one, added, "Yes, Mr. Watson, this one here, is nearly there."

"And Sherlock?"

Anthea frowned, clicking again then refreshing. "Hmmm. No data. Last known location was ... Baker Street, many hours ago." She zoomed in one something, another few clicks. "Oh, wait, updated signal was lost, over ... in this section." She indicated the map, the seedier area of the city.

"Likely investigating some nonsense or looking for trouble. Reach out to Scotland Yard, if you would, find out his location, and prepare someone to go collect him." There was heaviness in the room, from his shoulders to his chest, and he sighed at the dearth of information at the moment. "I'll log into the hospital records, see if I can find the A&E listings."

"Want me to reach out to Mr. Watson? Or send a car?"

"No, not yet. Clearly he's aware, and on his way. I'll liaison with him later, but for now, let him focus on the situation." Anthea nodded, wanting to offer hope that Rosie was all right, that she'd survived the accident, that hopefully they were working on her and she'd be okay. But the words were empty, grasping, and actually unfounded, so she said nothing. "Keep me abreast." There was still plenty of information to be gleaned, despite the annoying holes in what she already had found.

++

"There's been an accident, and your brother sent me to get you." Slowly, Sherlock has arisen to his feet, standing as if braced for news. Bad news, because it could be no other kind, not like this.

"What happened?"

"Details are sparse, but Ms. Watson was involved in a car wreck, and Mr. Watson is at the hospital now."

"Is she all right?"

"As I said, limited information, I'm sorry. We're working on it." Greg had overheard, and come to stand near Sherlock and the messenger. "Two vehicle accident at an intersection. Apparently there was a fatality, at least one, best we can tell from the ambulance alerts, but it is unclear the extent of young Rosamund's injuries."

Greg found his words first. "Want me to go with you?"

"No." Sherlock cast a quick glance about the room. He knew Greg was needed there on scene. And the very last thing he wanted was someone else putting words to what-ifs and other platitudes, speaking his fears out loud. Though John had mostly disproven it, there were still times when 'Alone still protects me'. "Good luck here, you'll need it." This was accompanied by a raised, disappointed brow. The Belstaff had been draped over one of the few clean spots in the room, and Sherlock quickly slid his arms in, and spoke again to the messenger, "Let's go."

"Yes."

"Keep me updated?" Greg requested, of Sherlock's departing form. It was acknowledged with the raise of one hand as Sherlock's long strides carried him off. The mystery in front of him was much less appealing for several reasons: Sherlock's absence, and the worry of what his friends were facing.

Traffic was snarled, slow, and Sherlock found himself wishing, from the back of the car, that his brother would have sent a bloody helicopter. He made a mental note to demand this in the future. At least the accompanying minion was quiet.

++

Rosie's stretcher appeared, with an entourage, and John quickly ascertained that the news, the volume of people, the situation had taken a turn. Maddie, who'd updated him earlier, strode in, stood attentive at Rosie's bedside, already in place to assess and determine the next steps of managing things. There was an urgency, a seriousness to their haste; something was going on. Although John wanted to ask - demand - an update immediately, he took stock of Rosie. A white bandage on her head had the small shadow of dark bloody drainage on it, and the swelling over her temple was severe. Her skin was pale, and her eyes closed. Her breathing pattern, though, fired off instant alarm for him, as it obviously had done for the rest of the healthcare team. It was shallow, slow, and oddly intentional; not quite gasping. A puff to her cheek on one side when she exhaled, an abnormal finding, was evident. The bedside monitor was flashing, alarming, low oxygen levels. She'd already had an oxygen mask with a reservoir placed, and there was an ambu bag next to her on the bed, very close by if, or when, it was needed. And he was not alone in his concern. The nurse who'd accompanied her spoke to him. "I hear you're a physician, I'm Kelly, her nurse. At the end of the CAT scan, she started breathing differently, so we canceled the trauma scan, rushed back here. Doc'll give you a full update soon as we can, but we've called anaesthesia to intubate. She's not supporting her airway any longer." Another provider connected the resuscitator bag to the oxygen flowmeter so that it would be ready when needed.

It felt to John as if he was watching something fake, in slow motion, as his mind processed a nightmare unfolding in front of him. A personal, awful, unimaginable thing.

It was Rosie, to be certain. His daughter at the epicenter, at risk, and he felt absolutely powerless, shocked, stunned for a few moments before finding his words. Maddie was close by, and John was quick to ascertain, very much in control, calm, not panicking, so he spoke to her. "The CAT scan showed something," John stated. He looked then, quickly, at the heart monitor, seeing a heart rate that should have been much higher, wasn't. Seeing a blood pressure that was too high for her age. The lectures from med school and his residency came crashing back, a rogue wave pummeling him from all sides, Cushing's triad, and it explained the errant breathing pattern. "Oh god, it's her ICP," he whispered, and the nurse reached out, a comforting hand on his arm. "The CAT scan?"

Kelly nodded, glanced at the tech who was helping. Maddie was the one listening, and who answered. "Yes, they did see something. Likely a subdural. Bit of swelling. All still unofficial, mind you. The radiologist was reading it stat, and going to call his findings over in a minute or two."

"Oh god, Rosie," John was already holding her left hand around the gauze dressings, her limp hand, which felt tiny and cool and entirely too still in his larger one. The right one, the one they suspected was fractured, was encased in a temporary splint, and some of the rolled gauze around her arm had a shadow of bloody drainage. "Hang on there, sweetheart. You're going to be all right." He knew he needed to get out of the way, but until they asked him to, he planted himself close as he could risk, by her head. Her fringe was even limp, sticking out from under the bandage, and her eyes seemed a little puffy, her cheeks a little flushed over the pale skin. "I'm here. And I love you so much. Hang in, okay?" There was commotion at the door, the arrival of those summoned to stabilise Rosie's airway, a nurse anaesthetist with another staff person, and a respiratory therapist, unpacking supplies, hooking up the waiting ambu bag, uncovering the stand-by ventilator.

"Going to need you to step out, okay, Mr. Watson," Kelly told him.

He nodded, leaned in to kiss Rosie, who was not responding. "Where can I wait?"

"Small family room, just around the corner, two short lefts." Her instructions were clear, direct, but then she touched his arm, a sincerity, a human moment in a storm, "We'll take good care of her." When he nodded, a barely visible acknowledgement of her promise, she turned back to the patient. The curtain whisked around next to him as he turned, not exactly rude, but giving punctuation to how severe the situation was. John blinked, hard, slowly, words in his head to the effect of disbelief, shock, horror, nightmare, and he forced his feet in the direction he'd been told. Two short lefts, and there was a tiny alcove, sectioned off, marked 'Respite.' Even the name of the waiting room seemed ominous, as he trembled and managed to get into a somewhat padded, well-used chair before his legs very nearly gave out under him.

++

The walls, could they speak, would tell their own sorrowful tales. 

Have a seat I have an update for you,

     The damage was just too great,

Is there someone here with you, I regret to inform you that ...,

     I'm sorry, we tried everything we could,

The surgeon was here and there's nothing more that can be done, 

     The sonogram did not reveal any heartbeat

We were unable to stop the bleeding and ...

     Take a few moments and gather yourself

There's tissues on the table

     The priest is on his way

Take as long as you need

     I'm sorry for your loss

     ...

Respite rooms used to be called grieving rooms. And, John thought as the sign next to the open door stuck in his mind, probably more accurate with the former name. He wasn't finding much respite there.

++

Back at the triage, there was a flurry at the door, and thankfully the line at reception/triage was non-existent. "Watson?" There was a nano-second pause, so Sherlock leaned in harder. "Rosamund Watson."

The woman recognised the name from another recent visitor, not too long ago, the kind young man here for his daughter. "Family?"

Sherlock, feeling quite the bulldozer at the moment, agreed. "Yes. She's my daughter."

Her brow raised, just a little. "There's already family been admitted back."

"Yes. My ... partner, John Watson is already here. He's been trying to reach me." To further his cause, or for sympathy, he held up the mobile, screen crushed into a spiderweb of sharp angles and glass. Whatever it took to be given rapid access into the guts of the department, he was willing to do. And he had multiple ideas, plenty of ammunition, of means guaranteed to make it happen, pissing off whomever stood in his way.

It wasn't necessary. "I'll see if someone can come get you, take you back."

Somehow, he managed to bite back he acerbic reply to that, the imperious demand, the harsh criticism of practically everything about her attire, her demeanor, and her misbehaving cat at home. Similarly yet unknown to him, he could not summon a thank you either, and he nodded, silent.

++

"John?"

He'd been sitting, elbows to knees, head buried in his hands, imagining the worst, the terror for Rosie, the procedural sedation, paralytic perhaps, intubation by what he hoped was the most skillful team on the continent. His breathing was still tight, his chest aching with emotions, the roiling sense in his stomach, nausea at being separated. But the word, the name in a familiar tone, spoken tensely from the doorway, gave him reason to raise his head. He was unable to speak, not yet, but he spied Sherlock in the doorway and blinked, wondering if it was an apparition, if the sight he'd been seeking, wishing for, hoping for, would vanish if he tried to quantify it. Or cling to it.

"Any news?" Sherlock, in just a few steps, stood in front of him, arms akimbo, waiting.

Real then. "Not yet." The first attempt at the answer was hoarse, gruff, unintelligible. "CAT scan, probably a subdural. She wasn't breathing well, I only saw her for a few seconds ... They're putting her on a ventilator now." A sob escaped his throat, his gut, before he stifled it, pressed on. "She's in a bad way. This could be ..." He trailed off, leaving the horror unspoken.

"Okay. They'll come get you when they can. And we'll go see her, soon as they let us." Sherlock found another chair, angled near John's, and set his coat down there in the small room. "A subdural is?" Although he could have figured it out, intuited it, or if his mobile was functional, used that to investigate, asking was greater part distraction for John, and lesser part fact-finding.

"Blood collection on the outer part of the brain, usually from trauma. Big enough, causes enough swelling to need surgical removal." Brushing a hand over his face, he decided not to elaborate. "Not conclusive yet. But it would explain the way she was breathing."

No further words are exchanged, but John stared hard at him, eyes locked, until he gave a small nod of understanding. And then John finally exhaled, one of relief, of gratitude that Sherlock was there. Down the hall the opposite direction, there was more noise, the sound of a mechanical wheeled machine, call bells and phones and voices. It filtered into their little room, where Sherlock eventually sat down as well, quietly. John could feel his heart pounding with each footstep, wondering and wishing and waiting, though no one came closer yet.

"I tried to call you. Several times." His tone was flat, not upset, filling the void.

In answer, Sherlock reached to withdraw the mobile from his coat pocket. A few of the shards from the screen had popped loose, and it looked even worse than the last time he'd seen it, when he'd flashed it to the front entry desk.

"Ouch," John murmured, still monotone.

"Stepped on by a Met idiot. An absolute ..." He pushed forward, not wishing to waste time nor energy on the trivial. "Mycroft sent someone. But even if it had been working, there was no service in the building."

"I messaged Lestrade as well. Guess that explains it."

"He knows, now."

The words, the speaking, dislodged the rest of what he was trying not to say. "Oh god, Sherlock, what if ..."

"No. No. Too soon. We wait. Wait for news. Rosie's a fighter, and ..."

Brisk footsteps head toward them again, this time growing louder until someone appeared in the doorway. "Dr. Kerns sent me to get you. You can ... both come with me, come in."

"Are they ... is she ...?"

"She'll fill you in, bedside. Okay? Tube's in, though, so she's breathing better. They gave some pain meds, along with a touch of sedation of course, too. And they just got a bunch of xrays, trauma scan plus one to confirm tube placement."

The curtain was still drawn, so they couldn't see anything until they were standing right at Rosie's bedside. Initially, Sherlock was more shocked, most stunned, by what he saw. A bandage with a small amount of bloody bandage wrapped like a headband around her locks. A flesh colored piece of adhesive stuck to her upper lip, held on with blue and white plastic, supported a thick, uncomfortable looking tube that connected Rosie to the ventilator. A control paneled big piece of medical technology, making noise and displaying various numbers, waveforms, and colours with each breath stood nearby. While Sherlock stared at the device, John crossed quickly to Rosie, put a hand on her shoulder. Before he could really even say anything, Dr. Kerns was at his elbow, touching him lightly. "Not too much stimulation, okay? Calm after the sedation we just gave."

John nodded, spoke quietly, simply. "Hey Rosie. Papa's here, and Sherlock. You rest, okay?" The words nearly choked him. He didn't really, deep down want her to rest. He wanted her to jump off the damn stretcher, rip the tube out of her throat, and demand to be taken home. Holding her in as many places as he could, one hand on her bandaged one, the other on her shoulder, he turned his head to look at the doctor. "So, this is Sherlock," he began.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "John's partner." When John flicked his eyes to see, Sherlock's hand was outstretched to the doc's. "I think John would like an update, please. We would."

"CT scan reading, first off, does show a subdural. It's moderate in size. And there's some oedema and pressure, the neurosurgeon is on his way in." Maddie looked directly into John's face, glanced to Sherlock a time or two, to make sure he was listening, understanding. "She'll need to go to surgery rather quickly. They'll talk to you, of course, but the goal is to reduce swelling. Inside the skull, there's not a lot of room for expansion. The quicker we relieve the pressure, the better."

"What surgeon is it?"

She gave a name, one John had a least peripherally heard before. "Head of the department. He's a good man." Maddie tried to smile, falling somewhat short. "If my daughter was here, and needed surgery, that's who I'd want." Nodding once more, John stared at Rosie's familiar yet unfamiliar face. The tube, the bruising, the atypical stillness, all very sobering. Maddie spoke to Sherlock then, "So what questions do you have?"

"Her labs are ... okay?" John asked, and when the doc nodded, he followed with, "Were there any other fractures?" He referred to the full body xrays that they'd mentioned earlier. 

"Fractured clavicle, probably from the seatbelt, which, thank god she was wearing. Ribs are okay. Pelvic bruising, again, probably seatbelt or from the force of the crash. Right wrist, hairline fracture barely displaced, that'll get splinted and ortho will see her tomorrow probably. The wrists, hands, superficial lacerations just from this," Maddie held up her hands, demonstrating in front of her face. "Flying glass went there instead of into her eyes or on her face. Quick reflexes."

"Like you, John," Sherlock quipped, coming to stand immediately behind John, brushing against the back of his shoulder lightly with his body. Neither speak of the times Sherlock used to throw things for John to catch. "So the CAT scan, the ... haematoma. Can you explain ...? The size of the ...?" He pointed to his own head.

"Subdural, yes. Fairly good sized, two centimeters in the largest direction, but it's the swelling around it that makes it an urgent surgical consideration. Remove it, probably put a monitor in, which can also be drained. It'll depend of course on what they find and how Rosie comes through it all. The surgeon will go over these things with you. Concussed, but somewhat expected."

John remembered that he'd neglected to ask, and spoke up, "Were the others in the car, injured? She was with a friend, and the friend's parent."

"I'm not sure, but I can try to find out for you. If you get me a name, I can discreetly see if they're here?"

John gave it, quietly, and the doc wrote it down, nodded. "Will Rosie remember the accident?"

Maddie heard an overhead summons, something down the hall, within the department, but paused long enough to say, "We don't know what she'll remember. One thing at a time, okay John? I have to step out for a moment, but you'll see the surgery team soon. Anaesthesia. Surgeon. She'll be going up soon, okay?" 

She gave them a reassuring smile, one of comfort and exuding confidence, then disappeared to render aid somewhere within the department, where clearly an unexpected emergency was going on.

"What's taking so long?" Sherlock fussed in the first few seconds after she left. A presence at the doorway arrived, and Sherlock added, "Finally."

John didn't even have time to offer any sort of apology to the newcomer. A scrub-garbed tall man, salt and pepper haired, brown eyed, man appeared, taking in the room quickly, focusing on Rosie for a long moment. After, he turned to the men standing, held out a hand to John first. "You're parents?" he asked, waiting for a small nod. "I'm Dr. Lawrence Morgan. Larry. Neurosurgery. Did ... who was it, Maddie, did she review the images with you?"

"No, and that would be great. John," he introduced himself, shaking the hand of the surgeon who would, rather soon, have those very hands ... John tabled that thought.

"I'll explain things from here, starting kind of backwards, but the images really determine the plan. The immediate plan." There was a large screen there in the trauma bay, and he moved to the computer near, mounted in the wall, logged in and rather deftly had loaded Rosie's electronic images. "This, well - John, you recognise this - is Rosie's brain structures." He oriented them to front, back, starting at the top of her head. "Here," he scrolled, rolling the mouse along within the CAT scan record, "is where you'll start to see the haematoma. See it?" He focused on the actual area, and John saw not only the white enhanced collection of blood, but the encroaching areas of swelling, where there was more brain matter than ventricle, that the areas in between were compressed looking. Leaving the images on screen, the doc moved with confidence, approaching Rosie, and though she'd recently been sedated and medicated for pain, he spoke to her quietly. "Good afternoon, Ms. Watson. I'm Larry, Dr. Morgan actually, here to take a look at you. You'll feel my fingers, see a light perhaps. Just relax, we're going to take very good care of you, fix the problem here, get you back to ... oh, going shopping, painting your toenails, giggling with your friends, updating Instagram." As he spoke, he evaluated her pupils, her reactivity, her corneal reflexes, and checked her flexibility of her neck. There was a moment as he considered the ventilator, looking for respiratory effort and pressures. "I think we'll have you back to school in a couple of weeks, all right?" He laid a hand on her shoulder, then listened to her chest, evaluated the dressings on both forearms and hands. He evaluated deep tendon reflexes, checked her extremities for muscle tone, her feet and toes for a Babinski, then straightened her blanket over her.

As John watched, he couldn't help but feel a little hopeful at the man's tone, delivery, and message. Back to normalcy (and social media), completely recoverable, even just the way he addressed Rosie as a young teenager was satisfying. Without thinking consciously about doing it, and certainly without planning, he let his hand slide into Sherlock's, once, briefly, and squeezed. A body language, a touch, an unspoken, did you see that? Sherlock gripped tight for a moment, returning the gesture, yes I most certainly did. Although their fingers slid apart, the sensation of the skin contact did not fade immediately.

"All right. She's had some sedation, pain meds, doing well on the ventilator. We hyperventilate a little, minimise cerebral oedema." He guided them just a short distance from Rosie, to the foot of her bed, before speaking again. "I don't think we'll disturb her, but here is good. So, to review, closed head injury, motor vehicle accident. Probably struck here," he indicated Rosie's fronto-temporal area, "just based on what we see on her noggin, and what we can see inside," he pointed a thumb at the CT image on the screen. "Good sized subdural haematoma. They told me, John, you're a doctor, what type?"

"General surgery. Afghanistan, couple tours, retired from operating. Local clinic, now. GP, mostly."

"Working in the skull is all about pressure and volume, right? Brain tissue, blood, and cerebrospinal fluid. Too much, or too little of any of those, we have a problem. So the surgical plan is to open up, minimally, best we can, small flap, evaluate and remove the blood clot. I'll place a small drain, a monitor that can measure pressures, close her back up, and take her to our paediatric neurosurgical ICU. Once we can see things are headed the right direction, we'll probably get the breathing tube out, we'll see, but as early as tonight. Let her wake up more.  Keep an eye on pressures and drainage. How quickly we pull all of that will depend on how well her healing goes." He does not seem rushed, looking between them, and then said, "So there's a case ahead of us, shouldn't be too much longer. We turn the rooms over pretty quick, you should see anaesthesia pretty soon, and then I'll call for Rosamund."

"Rosie," Sherlock said, his voice tight. "She goes by Rosie."

"Rosie. I like that better, it suits her." He smiled, a little bit of a crooked one that John finds ... almost worthy of a grin. "We should be perhaps an hour, hour and a half, all things. A little longer, getting ready I suppose. I know you have a tonne of questions, so fire away."

"What's your post op complication rate?" Sherlock fired the question at him immediately, and then right on its heels, "And your infection rate?"

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Bit not good."

Sherlock pressed back, in a loud whisper, "He used the word 'noggin' for gods sake, what did you expect me to ask?"

"Fair point," Larry offered, the gesture with his hands and his smile agreeing. "And, it's okay," he said. "Very low, to both. Below industry standard. As is the case for the hospital, particularly the Neuro surgical ICU, where she'll go after. Great question. Usually not the first, though, the first is usually ..."

"Will she be okay?" John suggests, less a question than a statement.

"Yes. And yes, she's got a very good chance of full and complete recovery. The sooner we get there, the better, so let me finish here, get the permit signed and scurry on my way, if you have no other questions. We will talk again in a few hours, all right? I have your mobile number already, John. Anything else?"

"No shunt planned?" John asks. "If the pressure is high, I mean?"

"She shouldn't need one. That's what the drain is for. And hopefully that's only in for a day or so. Kids are, as they say, super resilient. And with that, they scare their parents half to death, do they not?"

"God yes," John whispered quietly. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm not minimising the long road ahead. And the work will come later, but Rosie? She should do very well." He turned to the papers he'd been holding, pulled out a consent form. "Standard OR consent. Risks include bleeding, swelling, lasting neuro deficits, less than two percent chance of that, death, less than half a percent of that. I know," he said, slowing down, holding out a pen to John, "that this is not routine for you. But it is very routine for us. All day, unfortunately, every day. I do need your permission, though, to do the surgery as we've discussed. The form includes a blood permit, though it's unlikely she'll need any."

"Yes." John took the pen, signed with a flourish, just as illegible as the one this morning, and handed the pen and the form back to the surgeon.

One of the nurses came back in then, checking Rosie's identification band on her ankle, her IV sites, and verified that she was resting, comfortable, the ventilator settings, and hesitated before leaving the room. "You guys okay?"

"Not really," John murmurs. "But yes, I suppose. As expected."

"We're expecting her on call to the OR shortly. Couple things that have to happen before she goes, though, a scrub with an antimicrobial and clean gown. We make sure to be as clean as possible. And has anaesthesia been in - oh, I think I hear him?" There was the sound of someone talking, asking for Watson's room.

And in walked someone John thought looked familiar, who also did a double take upon seeing John, who had the advantage of seeing the man's name tag. "Sid Brower?" John grinned then, one of relief, and extended an arm. "John Watson. We were in med school together, Barts? I think you were a year ahead?"

"Oh yeah, no wonder you look familiar, we had a couple cases together, me passing gas and you cutting." For a moment, he made a face as he took in the presence of Sherlock, the questioning expression, and he backpedaled. "Sorry. Slang. None of that literal. I'm Sid Brower, I'll be handling the anaesthesia today. You met Dr. Morgan?"

John answered, "Yes, he just left."

"Okay then, my work is just to keep Rosamund, your ... daughter?" He looked to Sherlock first, then to John, and also smiled as he decided Rosie's parentage. "Yes, Rosamund nicely asleep, comfortable, blissfully unaware while they settle things up here." He was clear, checking that they didn't have any questions so far. "She already has a stable airway, which is great. We use general anaesthesia, a boatload of stuff to keep her swelling down, her nausea away, and as we get close to the end of the case, we make sure she's as stable as can be as she goes over to the neurosurg ICU." He also has papers with him, on a clipboard, and he glanced through, reading out loud, "No allergies. No surgery before, ever. No health history to speak of other than the usual childhood things. We got her paediatrician records, you know, NHS has to be good for something. So, soon as the OR is ready, Larry and I, excuse me, Dr. Morgan and I, will be there to meet her. There's a good team here." 

"I still can't believe ..." John began, then stopped himself, biting at his lip just a bit, nervously. "It's just ... this morning, she was her usual self. Stomping down the stairs. Eating toast, drinking hot chocolate. Off with friends after school, and now?"

"Changes on a dime, right?" Sid slowed down himself, waiting for John to agree. "Happens so fast, one moment, fine and the next, nothing is the same." He moved to the ventilator, checking as Dr. Morgan had, the settings and pressures. He took in her IV sites, the angle of her jaw, checked the flexibility of her neck just slightly. "Might put another line in while she's still asleep. She has two, I might see if I can get a bigger, longer, safer one, usually we can go here in the upper arm. If her blood pressure is rock stable, that's great, otherwise, I do like an arterial line for our paeds neuro cases, just to be extra careful." He cross checked the name band on her ankle, as the other providers had done, and turned back to John. "Hardest thing for her, might be we'll need to clip her hair pretty short along that side of her head. But it'll grow. What questions do you have?"

"Does she go to recovery, or straight to the ICU?"

"We prefer a direct back. less movement, less stress on the patient. Provided they have a dedicated nurse available, that's my hope." His mobile, which sat in his top pocket, flashed, and he checked. "That's us then. They're calling us, and we'll be calling for her in a few minutes."

The nurse reappeared, a helper in tow, and told them, "So now we see how efficient we can be. I need about three minutes, clean gown, that skin prep and wash I mentioned. Step just to the hallway, we'll tag team this, get you right back in. And you'll walk up to the OR with her, they'll show you where to wait."

Sherlock didn't seem to be processing, stood with his arms crossed, and spoke a little harshly, "I don't mind staying right here in the corner, out of your way. Seems if she's heading away soon, we should have as much time as possible with her."

While John appreciated his being somewhat territorial, and not really wanting to leave either, he did not share the request. "We're fine," he told the nurse, taking Sherlock's arm and leading him just outside the door into the hall. "Just give them this, it's a quick scrubdown. They have to completely uncover her, change the gown and such. Rosie wouldn't want me in there for that, and definitely wouldn't want you in there for that. It's okay. We'll be a minute and then go back with her. Yeah?" At thirteen, Rosie was as private as could be, understandably, and John knew she would have been horrified if she'd known they stayed in while the nurses needed to get her washed up, whether they looked away or not.

"I suppose," Sherlock's tone was dark, just a bit, as if chastised. "It's not like we'd be looking at her," he snarled, though quietly. "But I suppose you're right."

Inside, behind the curtain, John can hear them straightening, turning, talking, and there was a briefly horrifying moment when the ventilator alarmed, and they heard one of them soothing Rosie, explaining it was just a quick turn. The alarm ended, the men began to breathe again, and it truly was only a few minutes before they were summoned back to Rosie's bedside.

She didn't look any different, John thought, but her gown was freshly snapped, her sheets crisper. He would have agreed wholeheartedly to whatever needed to happen to keep her safe, and reduce infection risk. He dragged the chair closer to her side, tucked into it, a hand again on her uninjured shoulder, and he spoke quietly, "We're here with you. You'll be okay, all right? Going to get things taken care of, and you'll do just fine." Sherlock nudged him then, pointed to her expression, where she rested against the pillow. A single tear escaped down the edge of her eye, dripped slowly toward her hair. John brushed it away, carefully, avoiding the bandage, and said nothing more. Turning a bit in the chair, he faced Sherlock then, who looked very uncomfortable, quite upset, and uncertain. "Might be reflex, or from coughing perhaps. She's not uncomfortable, not upset."

Sherlock still didn't look convinced, so John gave a small smile at him, turned back to Rosie. Her eyes were closed, relaxed. Her brow was unfurrowed. The bandage had no change in amount of bleeding, and her lips were parted around the tube but she wasn't biting on it, or fussing at it. Her arms were neutral, next to the rest of her body, at her sides. Her bedside monitor showed stable vital signs, a heart rate that was age appropriate, and an even breathing pattern on the ventilator. Her blood pressure, also, was within normal limits. There was no tension in her legs, nothing visible that she was aware, and John found himself very grateful for the meds she'd been given, that he didn't need to explain anything yet. He knew they'd have plenty of time, after, to talk about things, fill her in on what happened. And he hoped she'd do the same.

A few minutes later, the nurse came to the door, "They've called. The OR team is on their way to collect her." She approached Rosie's bedside, made sure the pumps and cables were free and clear, to make for a smoother transport on the stretcher, and double-checked the IV fluids, the pumps attached to her bed, the presence of her name band, an extra blanket. There was hardly a moment from when she left the room, satisfied, that the team from the OR arrived, a tech, and the anaesthesiologist again, Sid.

"Ready?"

John couldn't answer that immediately, seized as he was by a wave of nerves, of nausea, of uncertainty. And a frighteningly sudden case of dry mouth.

"Your face says it all, Dr. Watson," Sid said, kindly. "Time to go get this fixed. We'll all go up together, and I'll show you the Surgery Waiting room area, so we'll know where to find you." It took a few minutes of unplugging, disconnecting, and gathering everything they needed for the transport. "From here, things just happen, they flow, and you get to sit and worry while Rosie here stays quite nicely chill."

"Are you sure you're a doctor?" Sherlock interjected. "Because you use more colloquialism and slang than anyone I know."

"I find it preferable to talking over someone's head, especially when I'm dealing with kids, and their scared shitless parents. If you'd like my CV, I can certainly provide it, but ..."

John found his words then, and added, "Speaking of scared shitless parents, that's us. Sherlock, he's ..." John had taken the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt as he talked, and Sherlock quickly jerked away, out of John's hold, and the moment was full of tension, of annoyance, and John wasn't sure exactly what to do. So he reached for Sherlock's hand as the team connected the portable ventilator, unlocked the brakes, and began to roll Rosie's stretcher away. Rosie was quietly resting, all her equipment bundled and packed for the ride. "We're okay. And we're coming along." The grip on his hand, intentionally, firm and without possibility of pulling away again. John knew he needed it; both of them did.

"Great. We'll need to send you into a different lift, just isn't room for everyone, all right? We'll meet you in the hallway."

In short order, Rosie and the OR entourage were safely inside the one, and John and Sherlock were alone. For good measure, Sherlock hit the call button for the lift again. And again.

"It's okay," John told him. "And by the way, hitting it more than once doesn't actually help."

"You don't know that," he said, replying to John's first comment and ignoring the second. For a quick moment, he stared right at John, fear and uncertainty evident, plainly evident, and he couldn't understand why John wasn't panicking himself. "I can't do this," he said, pulling away from John yet again, requiring more force to do so, and, once freed, he took a step away.

The lift door dinged and began to open. John put a foot inside, and spoke, "Don't you make me do this alone. Don't leave me behind. You mustn't." His tone was serious, a quietly veiled threat underneath. "You promised." John seldom brought out any of their long-passed history, and in truth, didn't think of it much. They've been through such a journey, resolved so many things, it wasn't necessary. But he did not hesitate to use it, now by implication, when they both needed it.

The taller man, a few feet away, froze. And a few seconds later, he turned, eyes downcast, and wordlessly followed John inside the lift. John got it, he truthfully did, and was finding his own inner strength, functioning in full crisis mode. He leaned closer, took Sherlock's icy hand once more, and whispered, "Together, today, we're soldiers. All right?" He punctuated that question with a small squeeze, and Sherlock, slowly and with great solemnity, nodded. They had, of course, a history with the phrase, and it was sobering - and unifying.

"Soldiers." Moments later, the doors opened, and they fell into step behind the precious cargo on the stretcher. For a moment, their fingers linked, then separated, the task at hand upon them.

Chapter Text

John, I was just about to text you, saw your voicemail.

They've told me you're here in the hospital, with Rosie.

I hear she's got a head injury, is going to be admitted. Is she okay?

Sylvia dislocated a shoulder, was in the backseat with Rosie

We're all very shaken up, bruised, Al was driving, compound fracture of his right arm, will need surgery/repair.

They're keeping him overnight; Sylvia and I are going home shortly.

I'm battling concussion, terribly blurred/double vision, wearing an eyepatch.

My sister is here to help us all, until we're on the mend, and is typing for me, bless her heart.

Sylvia's very anxious to come visit Rosie but I'm not sure when we're going to be able to make it.

So sorry. Please tell her we love her - and let us know how she's doing.

I'm sure you heard already, but the other driver didn't make it.

Hug your family tight, okay? Sherrie

++

The waiting room seemed an alternate reality. Limbo. Where people come to hold their breaths and wait for news. Good news, bad news, any news. Where footsteps become potentially harmful, potentially hopeful, every sound, every overhead tone, every ringing mobile the possibility of compounded crisis.

John saw the messages come through, a flurry of one after the other, and didn't have the focus to respond with anything more than a few words.

Not yet, just …

Okay. Take care. John

"Just heard about the rest, Rosie's friend and family, in the accident. Bruised up, but overall okay." Sherlock nodded, his eyes watching and seeing and understanding. "Except the other driver, though ..." John left the phrase unfinished, unnecessary, as Sherlock had already deduced the outcome by the sharp intake of breath when John'd read it, the frown, the rapid blinking. "Wow. Out of the blue, right? Everything changes."

John would not have been able to explain it, or realise what moved, but moments later, he was on his feet and Sherlock's shoulder was in his somewhat wobbly line of vision. There was a gentle, solid, warm pressure between his shoulder blades. "They'll do everything they can for her. And take good care of her." Unable to answer verbally, John let the hard swallow be enough of a response, and Sherlock eased away. "Until then, we wait."

Chapter Text

The sitting room was quiet, the evening London noise outside fading as it grew later. The work hours, the suppers done, the street lights glowing brighter as the headlights and brakelights grew less in number. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was quiet, probably in bed already. Upstairs, four-year-old Rosie long asleep. The telly droned, no one paying attention, volume low and the screen flickering softly. Presently in his chair, John held a glass, having poured himself a few fingers of scotch but had yet to even take a sip. Sherlock, across from him, watched and waited, a website open but not holding much of his attention. After a few false starts, Sherlock could see the moment John was ready to declare whatever had been on his mind, going on a few days now. It began with a throat clearing, a pause, something important.

"I need to tell you." A frown, a furrow, a blink. Eye contact between them, an atypical conversation afoot. "Sherlock?" When he's positive his listener was focused, he forged on, "I promise, I'll never ..."

"Stop, I don't need that," Sherlock, vastly uncomfortable, attempted to halt John's also vastly uncomfortable conversation that he was trying to have.

"I do. Need it. I need to say it." Although he understood Sherlock's misgivings, his absolute recalcitrance, he also one hundred percent knew he needed to say it. Out loud, for himself, for them. "Please, just listen?" He waited, somewhat patiently, for Sherlock to nod, staring at the floor but introspective. "I promise, I'll never raise a hand, or a fist, or a ... foot," he stammered over that last, remembering that horrific day, the abhorrent behaviour of his own, in the morgue "... to harm you."

Fortunately, Sherlock did then make eye contact again, and he did nod, once, a serious expression out of consideration for John's request. The moment was cathartic. Until he added, "I see you're not promising not to raise your voice?"

The expected snort from John was followed quickly with, "I see you're not promising not to be a dick."

There were smirky smiles, sideways ones, the type that eased the tension, and then John did finally circle back to the topic. "I would ask something, Sherlock. Something serious."

"What is it?"

"Promise not to leave me behind. Not again."

"John, I don't think --"

"No, I mean it. You’re my best friend. So … Not like that. Not even remotely like that." For all that they talked about, or never talked about, John wasn't budging, and his body language, his words, his tone, all let Sherlock know he meant business. "Promise me."

"All right, I promise."

"You promise what? Say it please."

"I promise not to leave you behind."

++

The family waiting room outside the paediatric surgical area was, in Sherlock's opinion, hideous. Part of it was dull, brown, and without any character. The opposite corner, clearly designed with children in mind, was bright coloured, odd cartoon characters on the wallpaper, and as they were the only ones there, the cast-away toys were dated, sad and pitiful. Truth be told, naturally neither of them cared overmuch about their surroundings. Every set of footsteps that passed, every cluster of voices they heard, every time John's mobile alerted, they collectively held their breath. Awaiting news, awaiting an update, awaiting a familiar face, or a stranger calling their name (or Rosie's) to no avail, and time passed seemingly in reverse. Sherlock bemoaned the lack of a working mobile, and threatened several times to hijack Johns (while silently plotting seven ways to overpower him and another four to otherwise incapacitate him). Unsuccessfully so far, he then demanded that John demand a new one from Mycroft. Each time, though, John refused. "What if they call, and you're on the blasted thing? No. You can wait. We cannot miss a call. Not now."

It occurred to John several times to go in search of an information desk, anyone, find a doorbell at the entrance of the ICU, someone who could get them information, and as time passed with no news, he could feel the rising dread, imagining the worst.

Eventually, a man came to the door, spied them both, and asked, "Here for Watson?" In answer, both of them stood to their feet. "She's just finished. The doc will be out to update you. Going directly to the ICU from the OR, and you'll be allowed in after the hour of recovery, okay? I'm Pete, I'll be her nurse tonight. Just came on duty, so we'll have twelve hours or so together, almost." John stretched out a hand, murmured his own name in introduction, and began to ask a question. Pete smiled, and kindly interrupted. "I know you have a slew of things you need to know, but I'm not the one to get that from. I just know you've been waiting a while, and thought I'd let you know the extent of what I know: she'll be out soon, and then it'll be an hour before you can come in." 

"All right," John said finally, understanding there would be no further information, even if the nurse had any to give. "Soon as you can?" Pete nodded, a kind smile. John followed up with a few things that he could ascertain. "There's a vent set up in her room then? The doc warned us about it."

"There is, but sometimes we can extubate in that first hour, so ... we'll see. Tube might be out before you get to see her." Pete shrugged a little, commented then, "I should get back in, finish getting ready for her, okay? I'll likely send someone else out to get you, alright Mr. Watson?"

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock corrected.

"John," came the correction.

"John," Smiling a little at the interplay, Pete agreed before disappearing back to the unit. The men processed at least a small update and sat in silence, with John consulting his mobile for the time, marking off mentally the next hour before he'd be able to see Rosie again. When only the first minute elapsed between checks, he inwardly lamented that this hour might be even slower than the waiting previously.

Sherlock was the first to speak, "So what else can we deduce from this?" He waited a moment then answered his own question. "Surgery's done. So obviously, given her age and such, the outcome is at least favourable or they'd still be working. Her vital signs must also be stable, or, again, they'd balk at telling you an hour. The nurse mentioned maybe pulling that ... breathing tube, so they expect she'll wake up and there aren't plans to overly ... sedate or ... what do they do for head trauma, paralyse or put someone in an induced coma?" John, without answering exactly, nodded as he rubbed his face with tired hands. "If there'd been a complication, the nurse wouldn't have come out at all."

"Pete might not know."

"Doubtful. From what you've told me about nurses in general, they're not only savvy, but protective. You said they keep their cards close, if there's an issue. This news, definitely, is not bad news."

"I just want to lay eyes on her."

"Soon." Sherlock stood then, but only to move into the adjacent chair to Johns. In an out-of-character gesture, he reached out to take hold of John's hand, as they'd done previously, and although John expected a quick squeeze and release, he left it there, got comfortable in the chair, and allowed the skin contact to be of whatever comfort he was able to provide. "Breathe," he instructed John.

"I am." John's words were tight. "Obviously."

"Deeper. Relax. Exhale." A moment later, Sherlock spoke again, reiterating the point: "Soon," he said again, a tiny smirky smile as they both realised he'd repeated himself. John considered, eventually their hands separating, that Sherlock had done that on purpose, for John's amusement, a distraction.

Not too much longer, and Larry came to the doorway, breezed in with a burst of energy, and when they prepared to stand up, he indicated they should stay seated. And he sat down too.

"Rosie did great. Removed the haematoma. No further bleeding, not even any friable tissue there, really. Put our smallest monitor in, capable of draining but I don't think she'll need it. Closed everything up, just a small flap and some skin staples. Tried to minimise how much hair we had to clip, even." He waited to make sure they were following, and indeed, both were riveted and quiet, letting him tell whatever he would. "Anaesthesia went well, general with a cocktail of antiemetics, narcotics, muscle relaxants, the works. There's an arterial line, she'll keep that until we no longer need the close monitoring. Still on the ventilator, so as she wakes up, the nurses have a protocol for a repeat blood gas and then we'll extubate as long as ICP doesn't r --"

"ICP?" Sherlock asked quickly, before the update got too far beyond that.

John and Larry spoke together, "Intracranial pressure." Then Larry continued, "--doesn't rise too high. Opening pressures were slightly elevated, expected, but we gave mannitol intraop, and she'll be on a course of IV steroids just for a day or so. Blood pressure is good, vent settings can be adjusted if pressures go up a little. Not that we're there, either. A little is expected, post op. And I don't usually give hypertonic saline, not at her age."

"John," Sherlock spoke, requesting again to have a bit of explanation.

"Stuff we do to lower pressure in her head. IV steroids decrease inflammation. Concentrated saline solution also, it works to shift fluids by osmosis and diffusion, lowers cerebral oedema and swelling by drawing out extra fluid. And it would include basics like her head of the bed being elevated, too. Keeping her neck neutral," John gave what he hoped was enough.

"Exactly. And we did an optic nerve evaluation, too. No oedema. Just to establish a baseline."

"Do you expect any lingering deficits? Was the location and swelling in an area that you're concerned about?" Although they had been shown the area on CT scan, John still was curious as to the actual area of the clot, the swelling.

"Well, we're always concerned, to be honest, about lingering headache. Seizures. Gait and speech problems. The majority of the swelling was in perhaps the primary sensory cortex, so it's sensation and movement of limbs, muscle enervation, but there's some variation, and of course, the brain is perhaps still a mystery, that it compensates naturally. She's young, we'll see as she wakes up and recovers. If needed, we get physical and occupational therapy involved. But you're asking questions that, really, are premature." The sigh John emitted then was one of frustration, of knowing the doc was right, of his own fatigue. "I know you've said it a million times to your patients, probably to each other, it's one day at a time here. Today was a good day. Unexpected. But fixed. Stable, if I may throw that word around. So just be here for today. They'll get you in soon. Sit, visit, wait."

"I know. I know all that. Have said all that." John did understand all of that, and yet ... "Thanks for the update, I guess. I appreciate it."

"Hey, you're welcome. I thrive on fixing noggins," he threw that last bit out for Sherlock, with an eye-brow raising taunt almost. "Pardon, on the neurosurgical repair and correction of the cerebral structures, evacuation of moderate subdural haematoma from the encephalon."

"Much better," Sherlock murmured, low, still a bit disapproving. "Noggin," he breathed disparagingly, and then, surprisingly, after the whispered word, he managed a small smile that did not go unnoticed.

"I'll get my CV, just say the word." Larry stood up, his smile doing much as it diffused some more of the tension, then. "Going back in to check on her. I'm reachable twenty-four, seven, and the nurses know how and when to contact me. I'll be seeing you, and Rosie, tomorrow, then." He reached out, shook hands with them both, and left.

"All I wanted was an update, or so I thought." John stared hard at his fingers, that are not trembling exactly, but feel foreign. "And now, it's real. And we are still stuck out here."

"Progress. They'll let us in, or let you in, I suppose," Sherlock suggested, introducing the idea, the option, before it became an issue. "I would hope to accompany you, but if I can't, obviously you'll --"

"You're coming. You already, from what I recall, said you were a parent. Didn't you?"

"Sort of." Sherlock did smile then, and added for clarity, "Partner."

A few changes flickered across John's face as he considered the term. "It's rather true, actually."

"Oh?"

"Well, in many ways. Not all, I suppose."

"It could be," Sherlock uttered, surprising them both, then immediately blurted, "No. Forget I said that. Never mind."

John's face tilted sideways as he processed what Sherlock said, and his frown deepened as he listened to the rest. "I thought you ..." 

A rap of knuckles interrupted John's statement in progress and they both quickly turn to see the speaker. It was a nurse, in scrubs, smiling from the door. "Pete says you both can come in now. Still on the ventilator, for now, he wanted me to tell you."

It hadn't been a full hour, but no one pointed out that detail as they stood, gathered their few things - Sherlock, his coat, John the bag he'd hastily packed on Baker Street - and prepared to follow the nurse into the Paediatric Neurosurgical ICU. The nurse held the door, and as she did, explained about the breathing tube, monitor, and lines. She informed them that Rosie was still waking up, that there were restraints on her wrists to protect the tube and the wires, and that, for the moment, they shouldn't try to wake her up, talk to her too much, or do anything beyond hold a hand perhaps, and be present.

"All right," John agreed, falling otherwise silently into step behind the nurse.

The nurse stopped at a corner of the corridor, tapped lightly at a waterless hand sanitizer station, waited for them each to use it. Then she led them to an open bay door, gestured inside, to where there was a bed, a bundled patient, the overhead lights off, some gentle side-lighting keeping the room from being too bright. There was a plethora of other equipment, and Pete's familiar face, but John didn't really take in any of that. Not right away.

Because there, in the center of the room lay Rosie, looking tiny and small and so very still in a hospital bed.

Finally.

++

John's breath caught, just a little, even prepared as he was, and with his background exposed to a variety of medical situations, he could feel the tremblor of anxiety shift through him.

Onward, as they'd said, together, soldiers.

Pete stood at a computer workstation, but looked up as they arrived, smiled. "Good. I know it's a little early, a touch less than an hour, but she's doing ok. So I know they told you, we'll minimise stimulation, let her continue to wake up on her own from the anaesthesia."

John, nodding, approached her near side, for the moment just taking it all in. She was still swollen, her face mask-like in the stillness, the breathing tube protruding, connected to a different, more complicated ventilator, the blue and white corrugated tubing circuiting between, along with other sensors. On her head was a white, somewhat bulky gauze dressing, with a clear tubing protruding, connected to a manifold that was clipped to the siderail of the bed, with another pressure cable going from the manifold to the bedside monitor. She was covered in a brightly coloured paisley patient gown, unsnapped over her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, relaxed. As they'd been advised, there were a few IV lines, one of them connected to a continuous infusion, and there was a second pressure line, the arterial line, displaying a red notched waveform on the monitor. Her wrists were restrained, the right one with the fracture now splinted with the restraint around that. It was impossible to even see much of her hands from the elbow down, as they were covered with dressings, one of them with a small amount of pale drainage seeping through. Her legs were encased in full length pneumatic compression stockings, clicking quietly away, keeping blood from being stagnant. There were a few blankets, from her toes to beneath her neck. From underneath was a urinary catheter, and John found himself quite grateful it had been inserted in the OR, while Rosie was asleep. Sighing, he wondered at how traumatising that would have been if awake, for any child, let alone his extremely private daughter, on top of all of the rest of it.

The bedside monitor told him, as Larry had advised, that Rosie was indeed stable. Her vital signs, the pressure monitors, all gave real-time, live readings of heart rate, respiratory rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, exhaled carbon dioxide, and even her ICP monitor was reading seventeen. The ventilator panel, too, told a similar story, with normal rates, volumes, depths, and pressures.

"There's not really a hand to hold," Pete said as he moved one of the padded, folding chairs closer to Rosie, nodding at it until John sat, "but her arm above that is good, elbow, or her shoulder. I'm sure you need it." Indeed John wasted no time in sliding a hand lightly onto Rosie's shoulder.

Sherlock was less eager to approach, standing just inside the doorway, at the curtain. He was taking it all in, evaluating data that, given time, he could completely understand if needed. It was a lot to process, to assimilate, to see the whole picture of not just numbers or values, but Rosie's. "How will you know when she's waking up, enough to take her off the ventilator?"

"Oh, we'll know," Pete told them, all of them keeping their voices quiet and low-key. John gave a quiet nod of understanding. "She'll be trying to sit up, and her heart rate and respiratory rate will go up. We'll be able, at that time, to get her to follow some commands."

"But what will be first?"

"Probably breathing faster? It's different for everyone." Their voices were low, as both John and Sherlock were of course cautious and had zero interest in disturbing Rosie, and Pete was careful to model this. "Understand that I'm not going to let her get upset, or work too hard, fighting against the restraints. We do need her awake, but usually it's figuring out that sweet spot of awake just enough. With all this monitoring, we'll know."

++

The minutes marched forward, with Pete completing many of the admission questions in a quiet voice with John, and Sherlock either staring hard at Rosie (and the equipment) or at the mobile he'd forcibly taken from John.

It was, as Pete predicted, Rosie's breathing that changed first. The ventilator alarmed, higher rate, the monitor following slightly behind, and after that, it was heart rate jumping up by about ten beats per minute, and almost immediately, Rosie was trying to sit up. Pete, from his logged in computer screen, sent off a quick encrypted text message, and moments after, the respiratory therapist appeared. 

"Awake?" she asked. Her name was Colleen, and her coloured tee-shirt read "Respiratory - Breathe Easy" and it was clearly for paeds, decorated with bright cartoons and balloons. Pete didn't even need to answer, as the vent began to alarm again before being silenced carefully.

"Okay, Miss Rosamund," Pete crooned lightly while standing at her head across from John. Her eyes crinkled tighter but didn't open, though she turned her head slightly to one side, a bit of a frown across her eyebrow. "I know you're listening. Dad's here, he says you go by Rosie, is that right?" There was a faint nod then, too deliberate to have been accidental, and John could feel his insides nearly turn to mush. A hand settled on his back then, there was warmth just behind him from another person being close, and he knew Sherlock was there. The respiratory therapist noted the ventilator settings, the monitor, and pressed a few buttons on the control panel. The readings went from being labeled 'Assist-Control- to 'CP/PS' and all of them watched, quiet, as Rosie continued to breathe, on her own now with minimal airway support. Another person arrived at the foot of the bed, Sid from anaesthesia following up, and without needing to say too much, he took a look about, then rested a hand on Rosie's foot. Pete offered the update, "On a wean now, readings, settings all pretty good. Nodded to command." 

Without a word, the hand that had been on John's back came to rest and stayed, with long, splayed fingers, on his shoulder. Once or twice, there was a faint movement, a reminder that Sherlock was still there. It was casual on one level, very intimate on another. Either way, John leaned into it, comforted as Sherlock intended.

"Nice, expected her to do well. Thought perhaps a quicker extubation, but ... On the right path." Sid leaned closer, coming nearer to Rosie's head, and spoke again, a little clearer, to her. "Rosie? Hey surgery's all done, you're almost good as new. Can you lift your head up off the pillow, just a little? Come on, the sooner you can do that, the quicker we can get rid of that awful tube. Hear me? Lift up your head, just a little?"

All of them watch and wait, but nothing happened there. All she did, in response, was another squint, a random turning of her head while on the pillow.

"I'm wondering if she just pure and simple doesn't want to. Stubborn, perhaps?" he asked John quietly, his eyes glimmering with amusement as he teased lightly.

"We prefer strong willed," John countered.

"Getting there, I think," he whispered with a small chuckle, before speaking to Pete. "Would like her perhaps a little more interactive. "Can you wriggle your toes, Miss Watson?" His words were slow and clear, so no one felt the need to repeat it, and there was a definite delay, but after what seemed like a long time, Rosie's big toes were moving under the sheet. "Awesome. Great, good job."

Another sensation of relief flooded through John, and he leaned back into where Sherlock stood behind him. Something about seeing for himself that Rosie was somewhat awake, following commands, and that her reflexes and motor pathways were intact enough that she could move her toes was profound. It was grounding, and settling, and encouraging.

"Since when," Sherlock whispered, quite close to the back of John's head, "is wriggling your toes praise-worthy?"

"Since a head injury can change everything, that's how," John retorted, just as quietly.

From across the bed, Pete, listening, gave them another smile.

"Another five or ten minutes, let her wake up a little more, long as she's still stable and meeting criteria, go ahead and extubate. I'll enter the orders," Sid spoke to Pete, who nodded. "Keep up the good work, Miss Rosie," Sid told her with another touch, a light grasp of her feet before stepping from the room.

"Like I said earlier," Pete said, "now we wait for that sweet spot."

John shifted his weight on his feet, leaning slightly against the bedframe. Rosie's face was mostly relaxed, a faint frown now and again, and John kept his one hand very lightly on her upper arm. He hoped, given that her eyes were still closed, it would give her some sense that she wasn't alone. Part of John wanted to stare at the monitor, but he was more comforted by looking at Rosie - and as such, it was John that noticed the change first.

"Pete?!" His voice was low, intense, a soft whisper to the others in the room. No one needed clarification of what John wanted them to see. Rosie lay in the bed, her head elevated comfortably on a pillow, and something was indeed different. From underneath a very faintly creased eyebrow, Rosie's beautiful blue eyes were open. 

Chapter Text

"I'm not sure why you didn't insist on staying in the room. This is ... terrible," Sherlock whined from the waiting room, where they'd been asked to step out while they removed Rosie from the ventilator. "Unacceptable."

"Let them do what they need. Get the tube out, wipe her face or whatever, assess her without us ... in the way?" John didn't necessarily disagree, he wanted very much to stay, to watch, to be there when Rosie was able to talk, to reassure her. He also knew that the tube coming out wasn't pleasant, and that being able to check her out, let her try to speak, evaluate her mentation without an anxious parent and an even more dramatic consulting detective there would perhaps be wiser. "It shouldn't be too long."

"It shouldn't be, at all. We should be in there."

A noise at the doorway then, though it wasn't anyone from the hospital staff coming to fetch them. 

Mycroft.

With the ever-present and ever-annoying smirk, the all-knowing arrogance and smugness.

"I thought perhaps to catch you in the room." Although his expression didn't change, his words at least were kind. "How is Ms. Watson?"

"I'm sure you already know." Sherlock didn't exactly engage, though he didn't miss the opportunity to pick.

"John?" He didn't restate the question, or fire an insult back at Sherlock, simply turned toward John and waited.

"Getting the breathing tube out now. So that's good."

"Despite my brother's accusation, I don't actually have much of a medical update. Only that there was a car accident, and that she'd been brought here."

"Evacuation of a subdural haematoma. Blood clot. Couple fractures, arm and clavicle. Some lacerations of her hands."

Mycroft's expression didn't exactly hold without reaction, and there was the faintest flicker of concern, made more prominent by trying to stifle it. "Will she ... is her prognosis ...?"

"They're optimistic." John wanted to say more, to offer assurances but he wasn't quite ready. It was difficult, he noted silently, to offer encouragement when he was struggling himself to believe it.

For a moment, Mycroft simply stared, a brow raised, trying to decipher the subtitles, the subtext, on John's face and in John's eyes. Before he could speak, though, to challenge John's apparent facial betrayal, there was more noise at the door.

"Pete sent me to fetch ... oh." The tech from the unit hesitated when he saw a surprise visitor. "Pete said you could come in. Parents only, for now."

None of them risk an exchanged glance, but it was not necessary. All of them could imagine the snark, the smirk, the faint puzzling very briefly, very much hidden, on Mycroft's face. "Indeed," Mycroft spoke, then added, "I'll wait here for an update, then, Sherlock. And please tell my niece that I wish her well."

"Shut up, Uncle Mycroft," Sherlock's harsh words were quiet, and he didn't belabour the moment. "Make yourself useful for once. I need a new ..."

He'd been about to demand a new mobile. Which, annoyingly, irritatingly, Mycroft had withdrawn from an inner pocket and was already offering on his outstretched palm. In the brief pause between Sherlock's words that died in his mouth and Sherlock retrieving the device, Mycroft whispered, edgy and arrogant, "You're welcome."

Both he and John rose, Sherlock giving his brother a quick nod. Volumes were left unsaid, unnecessary. All were a little on the anxious side, as Mycroft sat back down and the rest followed the nurse, to be admitted back to Rosie's room.

John had a few questions ready and couldn't stop the barrage. "Tube's out? Is she talking? Did she say she was having pain?" He stopped short of the question he couldn't bring himself to ask, Is she asking for me?

"I don't know the rest, but tube's out. Pete's there with her, and he'll fill you in."

With quick strides, John couldn't seem to get there fast enough, but Sherlock easily, purposefully kept up with him, and slid his fingers into John's just as they rounded the last corner. "Deep breath, John," was all he said. The solemnity, the seriousness of the tone gave him pause to look over. Their eyes met, John's anxious, intense, and Sherlock's, cool and gray. Unchanged. Steadying. It was all John needed to follow the directions, inhale, exhale, and he felt Sherlock's calm help settle him.

Rather than answer, John nodded as they finally reached the doorway of Rosie's ICU room. As expected, the breathing tube was out and there was a mask on her face. Mist puffed out of the blue tubing in sync with her breathing. The ventilator, circuit panel thankfully dark except for the word 'standby,' was pushed to the back corner of the room, where a respiratory therapist was dismantling it.

Pete greeted them at the doorway with an approach John could immediately tell was somewhat cautious. "She's not too awake yet, I mean, awake, and alert when we insist, but not very talkative right now."

It was all John could do not to hip-check the nurse out of the way, and it was the cautious warm hand, Sherlock's on John's arm, that kept him from doing exactly that. "Take it easy, okay?" he breathed quietly, a careful somewhat intimate reminder, punctuated with a gentle squeeze of his fingers.

Pete affirmed the directive, saying, "Just go slow, John. She's processing very slowly, whether it's the meds or the swelling or just things working their way through. Slow-ly."

As Pete knew would happen, John took a hard glance at the monitor to see her ICP readings and the rest of the numbers, all still very much within normal range and unchanged from earlier.

Rosie's eyes were closed as John came to her side, wresting out of Sherlock's hold to pick up Rosie's cool, unrestrained, splinted arm. "Hey, Rosie. It's me, papa. I'm here." With great effort, he stopped there, his other hand touching her lightly above the elbow. He knew, from experience, that with head injury, everyone needed to keep it simple. And wait, perhaps a long time, for a response.

It was long seconds before her eyes did in fact flutter open, to blink, once, twice, and then flick stutteringly toward him. The only sign she gave that she recognised him was the faintest twitch of her mouth, not quite a smile, but something - relief, or at least recognition, or a wry what-took-you-so-long. Her mouth opened, lips forming a soundless expression before relaxing again.

Pete was the first to comment on it. "That's more than she's given us, and of course reassuring. Give her lots of time, just like you're doing." The relief John felt seemed nothing short of miraculous, profound, and he could finally feel something like an exhale, the first one since that bloody phone call. From behind him, there was a scraping noise as Pete shoved a chair into sitting distance, alongside the bed. "Here. Sit. Just ... be here."

Her arms, obviously freed from the restraints, were a source of confusion for her, as every time she moved them, or tried to, or attempted to get comfortable, it evoked pain. She frowned each and every time. And then apparently, forgot, when she tried to move them again. Now and again, she would wriggle her fingers, a minimum motion.

John spoke, keeping his voice calm, his cadence very slow, his tone and words clear as he explained. "I know your arms hurt, Ro. They'll be checking them soon, you'll need a cast on one. And some ... plasters too, but ... you'll be okay." Pete, still standing here, nodded, and explained quietly to John, that the orthopaedic specialist would be there early in the following shift, to evaluate the injuries and review the xrays with them. "Just rest, you'll be fine. Awake now, and ..."

Her eyes drifted closed again, arms still, her breathing easy for the moment.

"Takes time." Pete stood by, speaking directly to John. "Okay, understand that this is normal, not everyone wakes up back to their baseline, talking etc. We let her rest, and wait and see."

"At what point, then, do we get concerned?" Sherlock spoke from just behind John, where a hand materialised to rest lightly on John's shoulder. "I mean, she's thirteen, and this is a big change from her usual. Seems we should be very concerned." There was a faint edge, a challenge to his words.

"Concerned? We are, of course, already concerned. But alarmed? No. Let's give her some time. It does take a bit for even a young, healthy person to clear the anaesthesia, the pain meds, and then there's this ... in her head, this monitor, and that takes time to process, too." Pete was quite sincere, quite confident, and John did feel -- somewhat -- better with that.

"At what point will she have another CT?"

"Probably after the monitor comes out, a day or two after. Might be outpatient by that point." When both Sherlock and John looked at him with somewhat shocked disbelief, he grinned in return. "Oh, trust me, our kids, they rally pretty fast a lot of the time."

Closing his eyes, John swallowed hard and murmured, "That would be fan-bloody-tastic."

Once Pete left the room with the usual assurance he'd be returning shortly, and always available, neither wanted to move too far from Rosie's side. But she remained in that somewhat groggy, detached state, even when John tried a bit to talk to her, to speak calmly to her, give her basic details, or ask her a simple question. So for the time being, John simply sat, quietly, touching her shoulder, and, as Pete suggested, doing nothing except just waiting. And of course, worrying.

It was, although Sherlock did not say it out loud, hateful. So he found other things to do, scrolling one handed on his mobile (not wanting to stray too far from John's shoulder), or looking out the window at the abysmal view of another brick wall, or reviewing Rosie's bedside monitor display. Now and then he would ask a quiet question of John, about normal ranges on the ICP monitor, or the variability in the waveforms. At one point, almost reflexively, he nearly pinched John's shoulder, extremely worried, and directed John's attention to the monitor. "That can't be good," he said quietly, urgently.

Quickly, stifling his own alarm, John looked. And then mildly, hopefully gently, chuckled. "That's okay. That's just sinus arrhythmia. Very common in kids, and a lot of young adults too. She might just be asleep. It's fine, Sherlock, truly." But Sherlock wouldn't turn away from the monitor, so John pried off his vice-grip pinching from his shoulder and patted his hand. "Maybe go for a stretch. I'm fine here, and Rosie's ... she'll be okay."

Although Sherlock didn't leave the room, he did move from the close, almost touching position near John. While Rosie rested, John vacillated between relief that she was improved from earlier, and near-panic that she was going to be permanently impaired.

Rosie's eyes were closed again, and her breathing even and regular with sleep. Even so, after a little bit, John couldn't resist the imperative, the drive to reach out to her. To reach her.

"Hey Rosie. I know you're resting, and you need it, but ..." He stood, voice quiet, slow, calm, a comfortable close distance to her, and talked to her, explained what had happened, what day it was, that she was going to be fine. His nerves ratched up when the alarm sounded from her bedside. Pete was in, almost immediately, to silence it and check on things.

"High heart rate. Maybe upset. Maybe pain." He did the usual nurse purview of the room, checking everything else, and, when it seemed satisfactory, he glanced at John. "Ask her if she's hurting?"

Nodding, John hoped his voice wouldn't be too gravelly and spoke again. "Rosie, you having pain sweetheart? You hurting?" When it seemed she wasn't going to answer, she did finally nod her head, one time, yes. "I'm sure you must be sore all over, actually. And especially your head." Pete whispered he'd be back right away with her pain medication dose. John brushed a tender hand over his daughter's face, her temple, her hair that wasn't bandaged. "Can you open your eyes?" Sherlock had joined them, across the bed, and he located the controls and dimmed the light. John told her, "Bright light's off, if that helps."

There was still plenty of side-lighting, and a moment later, Sherlock whispered a word, gesturing with his fingers without touching, "Tears."

John didn't bother searching for a tissue, simply pulled the sheet up to blot at the corners of Rosie's eyelids. "I'm so sorry. The nurse is bringing something for you, and I promise we won't let you be uncomfortable, all right?" Her heart rate was still high, and Pete returned with meds for her. It was a few minutes, that seemed like much longer to John, after the pain medication was given when her heart rate eased, her face relaxed, and her muscle tone even changed.

"Understandable," Pete mentioned, and went on to explain the delicate balance of head injury, of neurosurgery, with needing to assess for alertness or changes, with the obvious need to keep people from suffering unduly.

"Are you saying you'll let her be in pain just so you can see if she wakes up?" Sherlock asked, with a slight edge to his voice.

"No," John began, "he's saying ..."

Pete, smiling, held up a reserved hand, not wanting to interrupt without permission, so when John stopped, gestured for him to continue, Pete explained, "I'm saying that we absolutely treat pain, and usually in a multi-modal approach. Lighting, touch, massage, music therapy, even making sure she'd got these close by." He picked up the stuffed animal from the bedside table, and the fleece blanket John had brought from home. "We also alternate different classes of medications. What I am agreeing with, though, is that we can't medicate without cause, or medicate too heavily that we would miss if something happens." The explanation was satisfying, and Pete added, "So yes, it's finding that balance that's safe for her situation."

John waited for Sherlock to offer some sort of complaint, but when he didn't, he finally felt he was able to sit back down now that Rosie seemed more comfortable. "The nodding is encouraging. Seemed appropriate, even."

"She's awfully slow, John. To answer, to nod," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'm sure I would be too, if I'd been through what she has done."

Chuckling quietly in agreement, Pete pointed out a few other things, that they'd been assessing her neuro exam every hour for a little while yet. That there was a couch in the room, if they wanted to try to catch some sleep, and that there was food available on the first floor of the hospital if they needed, from counter during regular hours and machine in off hours. He reminded them that other providers would be in, that the surgeon would be checking, that they would all be monitoring. "Questions?" he finally asked.

"Only the one that no one knows the answer to, is she going to be okay," John said quietly, a little under his breath.

++

What was left of the night passed without incident, Rosie resting, John fretting, Sherlock pacing. Eventually, Sherlock left the room in search of tea (declaring that even tea from a machine was better than none. John wasn't actually too sure about that). In the stillness of the room, with Rosie actually sleeping, best anyone could tell with her heart rate lower, and her breathing slow and even, John grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around himself, and finally, fitfully, fretfully dozed into the corner of the couch.

It wasn't a restful sleep, disrupted frequently by his own inner anxiety, or noise in the hallway, or Pete coming in for the hourly neuro exams, or an alarm. But the beloved figure in the bed remained mostly still, silent. Light was beginning to fade in through the window when Pete, after evaluating Rosie, came near.

"Shift's about over. Will be in soon with the next RN for handoff." He waited for John to nod before adding, "You need anything?" John pressed tiredly to his feet, looking over at where Rosie lay. "No real change. But stable, overall. I'm back tonight, so ..."

"Thanks," was the most John could get out. Complaints, worry, fears, and uncertainty were not exactly worth speaking out loud, he knew.

++

After change of shift, the day was busier, the background noise in the hallway and at the nurses station overall a few levels above what the night had been.

A few visits from the next nurse, continuing, as Pete had done, the frequent monitoring. 

He was thinking all in all, that she was doing better, when the orthopaedic specialist arrived, two others in tow.

"Dr. Andrews," he said, reaching out a hand toward John. Then, without batting an eye, he touched Rosie's shoulder, saying, "Good morning, Miss Watson. I'm here to see about your arm." Rosie's eyes did open, and she blinked, but didn't otherwise react to his introduction or explanation. "Nod your head if you can understand me."

Although it took quite a while, what seemed a very long while, Rosie did give a very small, very limited sort of nod. John's smile at seeing that, was nothing small, nothing limited, and he glanced back to see that Sherlock had returned, and yes, that he had noticed.

"Great. So let me tell you what our plan is, may I call you Rosie?" She didn't answer this time, but John whispered quietly, after a minute, that the nickname would be fine. "So you have a broken wrist, I'm sure, when you try to move a certain way, it's painful. The break," he began to lift up her right forearm, where the air cast was still tucked in place, and he carefully began to remove the velcro holding it in place, "is near your hand but a good distance from the growth plate. I'm telling you this, but making sure your dad is listening." Over Rosie's bed, he smiled in John's direction. "And I'm going to show him the xrays next, but I wanted to look at your arm first." One of his followers found the overhead light, switched it on so they could all see. The hand was swollen, more bruised and discoloured than yesterday, but not especially misshapen. The scabs on the back of her hand were very dry, dark, and seemed a little less than the other hand had been. He held it, aligned, making a couple of gingerly movements with it, a few degrees flexion of her wrist, a few bends of her elbow, and although John expected her to moan or cry out with discomfort, she frowned but was quiet. The doc lightly palpated the length of the bone before gently laying it down again on the pillow. "Xray shows good alignment, and it still appears to be. We'll clean up these scrapes on the back of your hand first, nothing needs stitches, and we'll wrap it in some soft gauze padding, then see about a custom molded splint before applying a fiberglass cast in a week or so." Rosie was still very mildly scowling, but other than that didn't seem too impressed by anything so far. "Do you have any questions, Rosie?" Her expression remained a little foggy, a bit distant, and she didn't answer verbally or with a nod. "How about you, dad?" He spied Sherlock, who had come over to watch. "Either of you?"

"The usual. Functional expectations? Nerve damage a possibility?" John already knew the answers but couldn't keep himself from interacting at least a little.

"Unlikely. And I'll show you the xray momentarily. Time will tell, of course, and we'll be keeping a close eye on her arm, but she's young and the healing should be quick. And complete." One of the people with him began to lay out some supplies, saline, gauze, cotton wrap, and a material that would, when activated, allow them to form a contoured half-cast underneath Rosie's arm that would allow it to be removed if necessary, allow them access to it, yet would be secure enough with an elastic wrap around it. The second person there pulled the computer workstation over, and deftly prepared to access Rosie's images. There were a few moments, the team working together, that Rosie's arm was cleaned (during which, she only grimaced a few times), gently blotted dry, and then wrapped with the padded white cotton roll. After that, one of them activated the splinting material, and working together quickly, they applied it to Rosie's arm from the elbow to her fingertips. Sherlock, meanwhile, moved over to the computer screen, and eventually the doc showed them both the hairline, non-displaced fracture, and asked again if there were questions. When neither spoke, he stood for a moment while his assistants packed things up and left, then stared for a little at Rosie before speaking to John. "I understand this, believe me. My oldest had a multiple trauma, head injury. It's ... a nightmare. And of course, the wrist isn't the biggest fire here. Unfortunately, I guess, given that the fracture recovery trajectory is a lot less variable." There was a small smile, then he added, "I look forward to hearing good things, or relatively minor ones, like Rosie complaining about the colour or something." The molded splint was a dull, off-white.

"Oh, she will. Hopefully," John commented. "Purple would have been preferable. Thanks for that, though. How is your ... family member?"

"Pretty good now, thanks. Terrorising her college campus. Long road, as you can imagine." He evaluated the splint again, elevating it on a pillow, and observed, "Already quite hard and set. Great stuff, this. All right, Miss Rosie," he spoke quietly to her, "you're going to take it from here, all right? I'll see you tomorrow, just for a quick check."

He gave a quiet nod, a tiny salute, as he left the room.

The day passed with painful slowness. Rosie would sometimes nod to directions, slowly and with delay. She would intermittently, inconsistently follow commands. Her vitals, her ICP monitor, her breathing were all stable. But the failure to really wake up and engage had John worried. Sherlock was in and out, very quiet, having retreated somewhere inaccessible to John. And so John'd been left, for some reason, to worry by himself. He could well understand the need for solitude, and he knew he could have reached out anytime, to Sherlock or even Mycroft if he wanted.

He didn't want.

Her room, old lino floors, the non-descript beige and gray throughout except for one piece of artwork opposite the bed, felt like something of a haven, insular, isolated. In some ways, John didn't mind too much when it was just he and Rosie. It felt, mostly, that he was protector, monitor, overseer of the kingdom. When she rested, much like he'd done when she was tiny, he tried to rest too. So there, on the quietness of the plasticky couch a few meters from the bed, he closed his eyes and tried not to worry. Eventually, he fell into something of a light but actual sleep.

Only to be awakened by a quiet noise. A whisper. A whimper. For a brief moment, he figured he must be dreaming. And then it sounded again, "Papa?"

The blanket was discarded in a long, misshapen puddle on the floor in John's haste, a few requisite steps, to get to Rosie's bedside. "Hey. I'm here. You okay?" Her eyes were still closed, but he knew what he knew, he'd heard what he'd heard. "Rosie?"

Her brow furrowed, her breath was deep then, and then, surprisingly, she tried to sit up, her core lifting her shoulders, and a leg moving weakly so that it was over the siderail of the bed. "I want t' go home," she said. Her voice was hers, but oddly flat, detached in a way very much not hers. There was another attempt, a weak attempt, to sit up before she flopped back softly, defeated, exhausted. Her shoulders gave a few shudders, a silent sob, an emotion-filled tremor.

"Not yet," John told her quietly. "Not yet." Inside, his heart broke just a little bit as another tear slipped from her eyes, dripping down her cheeks into her hair, to soak into the pillowcase. "Can you open your eyes?"

She did, tiny slits, slowly, before squeezing them shut again.

"Is the light too bright?" he asked her gently.

Her answer, a nod, was followed by another single word. "Take me home."

"Hospital for a little while yet." It was only through sheer effort that he didn't pepper her with questions, to fire off inquiries to her strength, her memory, her pain level. For the moment, despite the tears, she was calm enough. There was an overhead light, not bright at all, but John turned it off for Rosie. "Rest if you can. Light's off now. I'm not going anywhere, promise." The chair nearby, he grabbed with a foot and dragged it closer, a scratchy noise on the floor. Never letting go of her arm, he sat down gingerly, his body still too. He could only imagine how sore she must be.

Her breathing evened out, the tears stopped, and eventually she nodded.

Sherlock returned only a few minutes later, two cups of hot tea in a carrier, quickly glancing about, taking in as much as he could from the room, the blanket still on the floor, John's position, all of it. "She woke up?"

The smile John managed was a sad one. "A little, yes. Asked to go home." He accepted the cup, ensconced in a heat protecting sleeve around it, and took a small sip. "Thanks." The word was a whisper, a mist, a grateful breath. "You were gone a while."

"With Mycroft for a little. Then when I came back here a few times, once you were asleep, or the room was ... tranquil and I didn't want to intrude."

"You're never intruding."

"Oh?" This question was a bit attitude, a large bit seriously John, you're lying.

"Well, okay. Perhaps ... I'm glad you're here. With us. With me." They both were speaking very quietly so as not to bother Rosie, and for a few moments, they stared at each other, quietly, comfortably. The words spoken earlier about being partners, Sherlock's revealing disclosure - perhaps accidental, perhaps not - that perhaps they could be more than that. "I mean it."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Feeling a rising touch of emotion, of sentiment, John nodded with minimal movement, but then Rosie made a sound in her throat, one of not quite discomfort, but of unpleasant awareness, and each turned to wait a little longer, see if she woke up more than that. The silence between them, though, was companionable and at ease, each of them, despite the situation, approaching content. Sherlock's hand rested lightly, comfortably, against the back of John's neck and the sensation, the connection was far greater than simple touch, than a hand over a layer of clothing.

It wasn't long before there was another disruption. Rosie's surgeon Larry appeared, knocking lightly at the doorframe before coming in.

"Hey, good afternoon. Yes, barely still afternoon, not quite evening." John had very little concept of what time it was; mostly, it didn't matter. He was exhausted, mildly queasy, sipping only at the water cups now and again. Larry turned to study the bedside monitor for a moment or two before assessing the bandage on Rosie's head, the monitoring manifold, the readings and waveforms and Rosie's overall presentation. "Hello Rosie," he said, clearly, low, patiently. "I'm Larry, your surgeon."

Her eyes blinked open, brows frowning slightly in consternation. "Hi," she said, monotone and flat. She blinked a few more times, and John watched carefully, the interaction. The faint way Larry moved in her field of vision, evaluating her gaze, her ability to track.

"How are you feeling?" 

Briefly, the frown deepened, and a few moments later, Rosie answered, "I don't know."

From the other side of the bed, across the rumpled covers, John got quietly to his feet, ready to touch Rosie's arm or shoulder in support. Larry quickly splayed a hand, cautioning, requesting silence and non-interruption. John hadn't been planning on interjecting, understanding the need to minimise stimuli, especially for a medical exam of sorts, but he nodded. Smiles were quickly exchanged, two medical men, understanding each other.

"Fair enough." Larry was comfortably close, in her line of vision, and he maintained eye contact before speaking again. "Let me see if I can help. Do you know where you are?" With the same delay she'd had before, a few seconds later, she shook her head no. "How about, what kind of a building is this?" With somewhat less engagement, Rosie shook her head no again. "Are you at school?" When she didn't answer, he added a word, "Home?" and when he asked, "Hospital?" Rosie's eyes did flicker in a little bit of interest, and she looked over to the other side of the bed where John was standing.

"Yes?" but it was uncertain, unsure, an obvious guess.

"Okay, good," Larry told her. "You are, yes. Chelsea and Westminster. And you're doing better today." There was a distinct and intentional pause. "I have another question for you, an important one." He waited long enough for her to focus on him again. "Are you having pain?"

There was a faint nod, an admission, and then Rosie's eyes welled up once more with tears. "I want to go home."

"I know. Soon, okay? We'll get you a little pain pill soon." He cued her through a brief neuro exam, targeted, evaluating sensation, movement, some fine motor skills of her face, and basic visual acuity and fields. "You're doing well, okay? I'm going to visit with your father for a little, and then he'll be right back." Some silent eye contact ensued, and Sherlock came to stand by Rosie's bed while John followed the doc into the hallway. Before John could even open his mouth to ask, Larry smiled at him and struck preemptively:  "Normal. All very expected. Swelling is probably maxed by about twenty-four hours out, and should begin to ease tomorrow. But she's speaking well. Moving all fours. Sensation appropriate. Vision is intact, best we can tell. And, not to strike fear into your heart, we see a bit of emotional lability for everyone, but probably a little more extreme, more pronounced, for our younger female teens."

"Of course," John murmured with a wry chuckle, relieved slightly at the reassurance Larry offered. 

From the doorway, Sherlock was standing between the two parties, close enough to see Rosie, close enough to hear John and the conversation. "Emotional lability? Heaven help us."

Larry gave them a warm grin, a pat on the arm for John, and murmured something about finding Rosie's nurse to exchange information, and see when she's due for pain meds.

A short time later, Rosie was resting, fingers protruding from the splint on her arm, rubbing very faintly back and forth on the texture of the fleecy blanket John had spread over her. The colour vibrant against the crisp, white hospital sheets, was not only refreshing - it added a degree of normalcy. Back on the couch, John's thoughts rambled between worrying and random, and for a moment, he tried to relax, leaned his head back. "You should rest, too," Sherlock said quietly, providing one of the extra pillows Rosie wasn't using. He scooted a little closer to John, pressing the edge of his knee against John's, smiling softly. "I'll stay here, keep watch over the both of you for a little while." A brow raised while John thought about protesting, fussing that he was fine, that he would be all right. Sherlock, knowing, narrowed his eye, a brief glare.

"All right."

"I'll wake you, if needed, at the first signs of ... anything." He punctuated the promise with a bobble of his knee, hoping that the touch would be grounding, settling, reassuring. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.

Nodding, John let his eyes close. Rosie was okay. Improving. And Sherlock was helping to keep watch.

Chapter Text

John was somewhere in between resting, sleeping, and not exactly dreaming. Aware of distant, background noise, he assured himself that, if needed, he would wake up more fully. But oh, he was exhausted.

A hand, warm, settled gently on his knee. It was not urgent, a reminder he wasn't alone, and he sighed carefully, not wanting to rise to full consciousness.

Until there was sound, a name, a familiar voice, speaking, "John."

In his mind, there was a response, but in reality, perhaps not. He opened his eyes, blinking against the dryness there, and with a hand, rubbed at his face in an effort to rouse. To engage.

Oh right, hospital, Rosie, surgery, falling asleep on the couch and only able to do so because Sherlock was keeping watch.

And keeping watch, he was. "John. Something's ... different?"

"Hmm?" Nothing like a perceived threat to flip the switch from sleepy to alert. John followed Sherlock's gaze to the bed where Rosie was still resting. His eyes took in the monitor, mostly unchanged, before flicking again to his daughter.

Still quiet, calm, she was resting, her face still without worry lines. But the overall picture, John knew almost immediately that Sherlock was right. Her skin, John saw, was indeed slightly more flushed. "I don't know," Sherlock added. "Just seems ..." When John stood up, Sherlock stopped speaking again, letting John take stock more closely.

Without disturbing her, he moved to her side, studying her, the lines and wires, her skin, her breathing. Her colour. Then, turning to the monitor, he took note of several, subtle changes. Her heart rate was up a few beats per minute, and her core temp was also up several tenths. Her breathing pattern, perhaps a little deeper but still within normal range. In analytic clinician mode, John evaluated several things as well, the urinary catheter (very clear urine, no worries there), the fingers protruding from the splint (normal, not swollen or reddened), the monitor in her scalp (dry dressing, waveform normal, pressures unchanged), and the rest of her IV lines (which were all necessary and within normal limits). None of the abrasions were bleeding, nor inflamed. But something, indeed, was approaching off.

For a few moments, he wondered about infection versus normal physiological responses to the insult of an accident, of surgery, of even bruising being responsible for temperature elevations. Her blood pressure was normal for age, on the low side if anything, and her IV fluids were still infusing. Murmuring his thoughts carefully to Sherlock, who had come to stand behind him, John could feel the frustration of being a family member as opposed to part of Rosie's healthcare team. He told Sherlock he was going to go out to find her nurse, relay his concerns, when Rosie's day shift nurse came to the doorway.

"Just coming in to give you an update. But," she said, seeing his position, his expression, "I see you are already noticing, too."

"Yes."

Almost apologetically, the nurse - Katie, John read on the name badge - touched Rosie on her shoulder, speaking her name. "Hey, open your eyes a moment, Rosie. Just need to ... see how you're doing." John watched the nurse do a quick and to the point neuro exam, listening to Rosie give her own birthday, wriggle her toes, and explain why she's in the hospital ('hurt my head'). There didn't seem to be any change, and Katie asked, finally, if Rosie was warm enough. "Great, rest while you can, okay?" she told Rosie, gently. Then, quickly, she updated John and Sherlock. "I just got off the phone a little bit ago with her surgeon. He's in a case now, but is going to swing by when he's done. Might be a few hours, though." She was holding a small bolus bag of IV fluids, and continued speaking while logging into the bedside computer. "Gave him an update, some small changes, just a heads up kind of thing. Little temp elevation can be normal. But we're not going to ignore anything, especially when you can see other little things. Breathing, heart rate, colour. Most likely this is a response to surgery, the body doing its thing fighting inflammation, right?" She waited, and when John nodded, continued, "So we're going to get a little labwork, lactic acid and CBC and lytes, then give a fluid bolus, keep an eye on pressures, urine output, the works." 

Rosie, blinking now, eyes open but not specifically engaged, agreed to some water, which John held for her as the nurse drew some lab tubes painlessly from the arterial line, then scanned and hung the bag of IV fluids. Sherlock waited until the nurse left the room before turning to John. Starting with the one question weighing on him most:  "Did that surgeon give her an infection?"

"Probably not. No one is saying infection. Lots of things can cause fever. And this isn't really even fever, not yet." John's inner monologue, weighing words before he spoke, was as much to himself as to Sherlock. It began as a clinical update. "Low grade, like this? Any surgery can cause that, just inflammatory, the body responding to being ... cut into. The accident, same thing. Those cuts and abrasions, could absolutely do it too. Blood clot can definitely spike a temp. She's got those stockings, shouldn't be a clot in the leg. Remember, the issue in her head, haematoma. Another word for blood clot. The presence of lines, the catheter, the IV sites, the ..." John, whispering, gestured at the monitor sticking out of Rosie's head and it suddenly struck him.

Rosie.

Dear god, this was Rosie.

And he was her parent, not her physician. Her head, her situation. His responsibility as her father to love, nurture, protect.

A quick blink brought Rosie back into focus. There was an incision, staples, and a ... intracranial pressure monitor. In his daughter. Whatever he'd been about to say about sources of sepsis, died in his throat.

And then, standing quietly, Sherlock was behind him, angled to the side, and John was brought into a lean, a touch. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. It was slow enough to not startle, gentle enough to comfort, firm enough to brook no resistance. Not that John was trying to pull away. With John speechless, Sherlock found his words. "She'll be okay. They're moving fast, making sure there's no trouble." Barely swallowing over his dry mouth, John managed to nod, once. "And if you want, if you think we should, I can get Mycroft to find a better hospital. Another one that specialises in ..."

"No. She's ... This is the place. That's why they brought her here. The doc is ... People come from all over Europe to this hospital, for this reason." Belief, resolution was pervasive in his words, his delivery. "She stays."

"Okay. Just know we have options." Slowly, Sherlock's hand moved, pressing lightly against John's head until he surrendered, let it rest against the side of Sherlock's shoulder. The hand stayed, holding John there, making sure he could feel it. And feel it on more than the touch. The presence. The companionship, commitment, the 'I'm not going anywhere,' and the offering of strength. "You okay?" John couldn't stop the mild snort at the ridiculousness of the question. "I mean, for the situation, are you okay?"

Exhale, shudder, exhale again. "Not really."

"You're exhausted. And this is ... awful. More awful than ..." He paused, weighing options to finish his sentence. His voice resumed, a bit hesitant, slightly edgy, "... that terrible cabbie." The end of the sentence rose, not quite a questioning expression, but close.

John pulled back just enough for Sherlock to notice the sideways smirk and sad exhale. "Too soon." 

"Okay. So what's elastic acid measure?"

"Lactic acid, you berk, and you and I both know you did that on purpose." Sherlock's jaw rested lightly against John's temple and neither looked to move. "Measures the physiologic stress on the body, decreased perfusion, increased anaerobic metabolism. High markers are linked with poor outcomes without early treatment."

"Is that why she's breathing a little faster than usual?"

"Probably," came the voice at the door. "Sorry, overheard, interrupted, my bad." It was Katie again. "Need to empty the catheter bag, I'm winding up my shift."

Several things happened simultaneously, Sherlock taking a shift in his weight, preparing to step away, and John, reaching up and back to grab Sherlock's sleeve, preventing it.

The nurse didn't react, simply went about emptying and recording her end of shift tallies, clearing the IV pumps, and tapping Rosie lightly just to see if she was feeling okay, if she needed anything. "I'll let you know, or Pete will, about her labs when they come back."

"Thanks." John spoke quietly, still hanging onto Sherlock's sleeve.

++

Katie finished giving report to Pete across the unit, close enough to see the bank of central monitors but not close enough to be too noisy in the hallway. Or too accessible for visitors in the hallway to interrupt, to interject, or just eavesdrop.

"She's resting, and they're still in the room."

"Okay."

"So, I saw - I know it's none of my business, but ... " She caught herself, immediately gesturing and backtracking, the question she'd been about to voice reconsidered. Quickly, she amended, "Never mind. Doesn't matter."

"True." Pete was quick to agree, knowing exactly what she was - and was not - saying. He knew the question was simply curiosity, not out of agenda, so he echoed her word, "But."

"Maybe ..." They'd been alternate shift co-workers for years and had shared experiences, patients, and even occasional personal details. "You think?"

Unruffled, Pete smiled, glanced at the monitors at his patients, saw the stability, the current readout of vital signs. Rosie was the most stable of his assignment, and he was looking forward to getting started with care, assessment, meds, staying ahead of whatever he could do throughout his shift for his patients and others, and teaching. "I don't know."

They met their gaze, briefly, agreeing that, as Katie had said, it didn't matter. She recalled something to pass along then, "Oh, and her next lab draw is due at ten."

"Right." Pete made a quick reminder note on his report sheet. Hesitating briefly, he grinned back at Katie and said quietly, "I kind of hope so. They're good together, and great with Rosie."

"See you in a few hours." Pocketing her gear, wrapping her stethoscope up in the small bag she carried, she smiled another time, "I hope so too."

++

"Lactic acid was normal." The update, from Pete, who tucked his head in briefly on his way to another room. "I'll be in in just a few minutes."

"Okay, so what does that mean?" Sherlock queried. They had drifted easily apart, and John had pulled over a chair while Sherlock alternated between the couch and the doorway.

"That it's less likely to be infection."

Sherlock seemed to file that news, that update, but still looked over at Rosie's bed and frowned. "She's not very ... awake."

John was torn between trying to allay Sherlock's spoken worry and completely agreeing with him, when Rosie gave a small snort. "Awake. Just ignoring you."

"Oh goodness, Ro," John spoke, touching her again on the shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Odd. Awful. Everything hurts." Her eyes blinked a few times, and she finally looked at John through something of a squint. "I want to go home."

"I know. And I want to take you." Sherlock appeared in their line of sight, the other side of the bed. "Just not yet."

"When?"

There was noise approaching her doorway, discussion, two men, words for the most part unclear, but a few did drift in understandable: temp, cultures, groggy.

Rosie's surgeon, Larry, was the first in the room. "Excuse me, someone request a house call? Bit late in the evening, have to charge you double." He took in most of the environment, watching Rosie stare back at him. "Miss Watson. Good to see you, how are you this evening?" As always when he spoke with her, his cadence was slow, his tone even, his voice calm, and he was so patient.

"I want to go home," she murmured. Her statement was followed with a few shuddering sobs which escalated quickly, her body shaking, her breathing coming hard in between cries.

"I know," Larry spoke, then, while John made a few futile attempts to re-direct her, he went to the bedside monitor, pressing a few buttons to scroll back through the history of her vital signs. "We're working on it." He gauged, looking at Rosie's emotional state, when to cut in briefly, to have her make a fist (between sobs) and try to answer a few questions (with minimal success). "I will promise you this, Rosie. As soon as it's safe to do so, I will send you home. It's the best I can do for you, okay?"

In answer, Rosie pulled her fleece blanket up over her head. From under the covers, they could all hear the frustrated, shuddery sigh.

For all the things the doc could have said, he kept it short. "John?" He gestured with his head toward the hallway, a request for sidebar. John cast a questioning glance at Sherlock to make sure he was okay keeping close to Rosie, before they left the room. "I'm not overly alarmed." The emphasis on the word 'overly' seemed to give another opinion, however. John was about to ask - okay, interrogate - when Larry explained. "That being said, we are going to make a few changes. Urinary catheter will come out tonight if her spec grav is normal, and it should be. Then, long as her temp stays under 38 tonight, the rest of her vitals stay stable, and her ICP readings are good, we'll get the rest of the lines out tomorrow. Then, if labs are okay the following morning, and she gets out of bed, walks without issue, I don't see why you can't take her home, day after tomorrow."

"Wait, What? Really?"

"There's no significant, statistical, evidence-basis to keep any of those lines and monitors in past 48 hours. Some articles are now evaluating twenty-four. You know this, less lines, less modes for infection. Less things to go wrong. Earlier discharge is safe. And she's thirteen. Strong, healthy." John, blinking, found himself somewhat without words, and Larry chuckled. He leaned casually against the door frame, giving John a moment to process. "What? You want to stay longer? Move in? Forward your mail?"

"No, no, of course home will be ... welcome. It just seems, neurosurgery one day and home three days later feels like something of a rush."

"And of course, our secret weapon: she's got you at home."

"A scared parent, you mean?"

"Right." With another smile, he continued, "I know it's very different, but it's a whole new environment now. Gone are the days of a week for a CABG. Or three days for a hip, or a knee. Same day, those ortho surgeries now." He smiled, offered his calm, logical words again. "You know, home environment is better. You particularly, will keep an eye on her. And I'm not saying it's a given, a done deal. We have a lot of do, and monitor, before then." They moved to stand in the doorway, where Sherlock was listening, and Rosie was unchanged, resting. The blanket at least was off her head and she was calmer.

"Getting the lines out, sounds very much like progress," John agreed. 

"Lines? What lines?" Rosie, eyes open, was apparently somewhat passively following along. "Can I go home now?" She pressed up a little on her elbow, not too coordinated, but didn't seem to be too motivated to actually try to get out of bed.

"Soon," John assured her, "soon as we can. Until then, they're going to get some of the equipment off you. To get you ready."

"Tomorrow?" Rosie asked, nodding at her papa's words, settling down into the pillow. 

"Soon," John repeated. From next to him, Sherlock let his elbow brush against John's arm in solidarity.

A few moments later, Pete appeared, medications and supplies in hand, along with another nurse, a seasoned, kind appearing woman. 

"Hi Miss Rosie," Pete spoke to her, coming to the head of her bed. He waited, and when Rosie didn't answer, he continued, "Wanted to say hi. Introduce my friend Shauna. She'll be back to help us in a little while, okay?"

Rosie whispered, a little flatly, "Hi."

Shauna, kindly, from Rosie's side, touched her gently on the arm, then smoothed the blanket on the bed. "Just wanted to say hello, too. Love your blanket, and your ... critter. A monkey, is it?" Rosie glanced down at it, nodding, a small smile on her face. "Does it have a name?"

"Monkey," Rosie said. "So, I guess not really."

"See you in a few," Shauna spoke to them both before stepping out.

Pete leaned easily near the bed, taking in Rosie's presentation, the monitor, the vague sense of something being off. "How are you feeling?"

There was an immediate frown. "I don't know. Not ...?"

After a moment, he replied, "I understand." Pete went through a brief, targeted assessment, asking plain and simple questions. While speaking, he located the catheter tubing, with pale yellow urine draining, and connected a syringe to the sampling port. A few drops, a dipstick, and the specific gravity was measured without Rosie even particularly noticing. John barely had time to process it himself, before Pete declared it, "Normal! Great," and then was explaining to Rosie that they were going to do a few things, get rid of a few things. "Sound okay?"

Nodding, Rosie didn't seem particularly engaged as she watched Pete bin the supplies from the point of care testing.

Shauna returned, as promised, and Pete came closer to John. "I think we're good. I asked Shauna to help, Rosie'll be more comfortable I think. So why don't you step out, just give us a few minutes, okay?"

"Want me to tell her, or --?" John offered, concerned about Rosie not understanding, or having fear of what's about to happen.

"Nope. We'll tell and do it, very quick. It's better." He prepared to pull the curtain around the bed, waited for them to step out as he'd asked.

"No, I'll stay," Sherlock stated. "I'll just wait over there by the couch, far enough away." The others just stared at him. "No really, I'll just ..." He tilted his head toward the window, clearly not following the plans and not realising what Pete was intending.

"We'll be back in a few minutes," John nuzzled at Rosie's head, over her ear, on the side that didn't have the monitoring and dressing on it. "Love you," he murmured.

Sherlock, apparently, had chosen this particular hill to die on, and, with stubborn body language, he stared right at Pete. "No, we're good here."

"No we're not," John countered.

"I am," Sherlock said, missing only the stamp of his foot in his verbal temper tantrum.

"No, you're not."

Sherlock was standing, arms crossed, feet planted, when John jerked his head toward the hallway. To which, Sherlock sat down. And Pete, bless his little heart, chuckled.

"I need you with me, for a few minutes," John crossed to him, grasped his upper sleeve, and gave enough of a strong tug (accompanied with a look and the strongly spoken "Now!") that Sherlock did actually agree, surrendering, and reluctantly followed John into the hallway.

Once there, however, he turned his frustration on full force. "That's ridiculous. One of us should have stayed there, to keep her company --"

Leaning close, John wrapped a hand behind Sherlock's back. "They're pulling out the catheter. No, we're not needed there. Rosie would not want us there in the least. So we'll give them a few minutes, she'll be all right."

"What?" His cool eyes were actually, alarmingly wide. "And you were going to let me stay in there?"

Sherlock's shock, his alarm was entirely too genuine to have been staged, scripted, and plotted.

"My genius," John chuckled.

"Piss off," came the whispered retort. 

The hallway by Rosie's room was hushed, and they stepped only a few feet away, out of sight of the room occupants, out of the way of the rest of the providers. A few words and phrases slipped out from the room as they stood quietly in the hallway near her door. Most of the conversation low murmurs, was loud enough for them to hear. "All you'll feel is just a little pressure," and "I'll tell you when, okay," and Rosie's response, "no, wait," and then, quieter, an "all right, go ahead." Knowing exactly what was transpiring, John could almost feel the tension as Shauna spoke to Rosie, "okay, deep breath now," and John holding his breath himself, and there was the tiniest teenaged protest, a single gasp, but it was short-lived, and then there were more reassuring words, "Great, all done," and "you can relax, covering you up, You were amazing, all finished," and then a quiet inaudible question from Rosie, followed by a small chuckle, "Great question, you let us know, and we'll help you either with a bedpan or help you get out of bed to use the bathroom, okay? Well, a commode here by the bed for now" and then an affirmative sound from Rosie.

In the hallway, John glanced over to see Sherlock's tense face. His eyes were cool, his jaws clenched, the lines at his temples etched with worry. "Hey," John said to him, punctuating his word with a grasp of Sherlock's upper arm, his palm gently surrounding the muscle there. "Hey, she's fine. It's okay."

Although he didn't counter with a negative word, it was all over his expression as he quieted, turned to John, clearly unhappy. "She didn't like that. You heard her."

"She's okay. We'll go in soon as they tell us." There was a brief shake of his head, an attempt to believe it, a look of incredulity, of dissatisfaction. "Promise you, she's okay." A hallway connection in a paediatric neurosurgical ICU seemed an unlikely place to have such a charged moment, but John slid his hand down to catch and hold Sherlock's hand. They were standing close enough that their sides were touching, their faces close, John looking up with great intensity, with sympathy, with a plea of his own. "Trust me. She's actually doing okay. Strong kid, on the mend, they're doing all the right things." Sherlock's expression, unchanged, let John know that his concerns were elsewhere. "What? What is it?"

"No, nothing. It's just ... I'm with Rosie. I just want to go home."

John couldn't stop his immediate, automatic response even if he'd wanted to. Gently, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, loosely, a hug of compassion, of support, of being seen. Although their actual touching was relatively quick, and casual, both were shaken a little after, drawing apart slightly but eye contact holding. To Sherlock's statement, John whispered his reply. "I want that too. To go home, and shut the doors and the curtains, keep the rest of the world out, and just be together."

"Together."

"Yes, together." The word was punctuated with another squeeze of fingers.

Shauna appeared then in Rosie's doorway, in a small flurry of activity, the curtain opening, and she came into the hallway. "All set, you can go back in." Her smile was kind as she glanced between them. "She did great. Pete's there, still."

They moved past her, smiling their appreciation, and entered Rosie's room. Their hands were still clasped as they did so.

Chapter Text

Pete, before dashing out to another patient, gave them a quick summary:  "Took care of what we needed, she looks good. I'll check back shortly, for now, we just ... stay the course."

And so, Rosie seemed unchanged and unfazed when they re-entered, same sweetness about her, a little dazed, looking a little lost still. But on an improvement, in an effort to reduce risk of infection, the urinary catheter was gone. Her temperature was no longer continuously monitored (which, honestly, neither of them was especially happy about although it had to be considered progress), but her face seemed a little less flushed, her skin a little more normal in colour. John paused a moment, considering that Rosie looked better - and then it hit him anew, again, afresh. She was in a motor vehicle accident, now in a paediatric neurosurgical ICU, complete with bandage and monitor on her head, the splint on her arm, the dressings on both hands. Not for the first time, it struck John how perspective is everything. Rosie in the hospital was a cataclysmic event, but now that she was here, with a freaking monitor/drain in her head, somehow she looked wonderful now for the sole reason that the urinary catheter had been removed.

Bloody hell.

His thoughts wandered toward how awful this could have been, how absolutely catastrophic it could have gone toward, and a brief smirk, a half-smile, crossed his face.

"You're kidding me. What is that all about?" His raised brow at John's expression pointed at what he was reacting toward. Sherlock of course, saw the smirk and misinterpreted it.

"No, just ... This is great. I mean, overall. Progress. Talking discharge day after tomorrow. Planning on removing more lines tomorrow. It's ... well, maybe not great, but better. It's beauty out of the ashes, right?"

Sherlock leveled him a cool, distant, skeptical look. "If you say so."

Rosie patted the blankets next to her, one side then the other, looking for something, didn't pay any attention to them. She asked, "Where's monkey?" Sherlock found it, having been tucked onto one of the shelves across from the bed. "Thanks," Rosie told him quietly, still a little flatly, taking it and tucking it into her neck. Moments later, she buried her nose into the familiar comfort item, inhaled, and her eyes drifted shut again. A few moments after that, her heart rate slowed into that relaxed rate of the adolescent, drifting down into the fifties as she fell asleep.

As John watched, seeing her safe and resting, cared for and with - finally - a hopeful plan, he was overwhelmed himself, tired, exhausted.

"I'm ..." he began, only to not finish the obvious statement and crossed the small room to slump into the couch, his head falling back into one of the castoff pillows. A tremulous exhale summed up the extent of his fatigue. "Join me?"

For a moment, John thought he was going to fuss, to resist, protest, or otherwise be obstinate. But, wordlessly, Sherlock's shoes clicked softly on the lino, and the couch dipped slightly as Sherlock sat down too.

The couch had a great vantage point to the room, Rosie, the doorway, the monitor. From over her shoulder, the LED readout was continuous, a reassuring presence, stable. The doorway, a portal to other crises, of healthcare providers, of other visitors, of the usual evening hospital final roundings of the docs. Pete, as promised, poked his head in from time to time, mostly just checking, monitoring, seeing for himself that they didn't need anything urgently. And Rosie, the epicenter, resting, nose burrowed against her stuffed animal, blankets a little twisted as was her usual, a toe protruding. The equipment, a terrible distraction, necessary to a degree. Her blood pressure line, the arterial catheter, reading out in a notched red line. The ICP monitor, reassuring for normal readings and pressures, a tiny, sterile monitor snaked inside Rosie's skull that John tried hard not to dwell on. He would let himself be horrified at the notion, later.

"How will we know when ..." Sherlock was asking. He shifted between legs crossed at the knee or ankle, or both feet on the floor, unable to sustain any of them for too long. "When she has to ... you know, go."

"She'll tell us. Or, if she gets restless, we'll ask." Sherlock's expression gave John a moment to reconsider his pronoun choice:  "I'll ask."

"Yes, you'll ask." At Sherlock's mild shudder, John chuckled just a little harder when Sherlock asked, "Can she get out of bed with all that stuff?"

"So they say, yes."

"So, riddle me this, one hand/wrist with that cast. The other, dressings. Isn't she going to need help ... taking care of things?"

"Stop worrying. She'll manage. Or she'll ask for help."

"But what if, you're out, or sleeping, and she needs help at home, because I ..."

"Stop. Just ... stop. Please don't borrow trouble." John understood what he was meaning and attempted to help. "I guarantee, she'll be motivated to do it all herself."

"These are important considerations. Maybe we should try to stay a little longer in the hospital."

"Weren't you just saying you were ready to go home?"

"You're not listening to me."

"I'm listening to you, plenty." With another placating smile (he hoped), he tried to alleviate Sherlock's concerns. "Look, if we want her to be okay with what she needs, whatever it takes as she recovers, we have to be okay with it. So, I know it's uncomfortable to --"

"Horrifying," Sherlock interjected, barely suppressing the shudder. "John."

" ... uncomfortable to think about, but, we'll get through it. All right?" Although Sherlock was still obviously not quite on board with John's statement, he gave a careful nod, staring at Rosie. Who was still very relaxed, sleeping, her body still and quiet - and in no distress. John reached out a tentative hand, an attempt to reassure Sherlock it was indeed all right. "Look, Rosie'll be fine. And if she needs a little help, I'll take care of it. So don't make this a bigger deal than it is." Gently, his words did strike true, and Sherlock, after a few moments, did seem to de-escalate. "I'm ..." John began, unsure how to finish the statement. So many things, he could say. "Weary." Scooting down a little, he leaned back, a little awkwardly, and closed his eyes. Rosie was close enough, the monitor keeping watch, Sherlock as well, not to mention Pete, that he could likely shut his eyes, perhaps catch a short power nap.

The angle of the couch wasn't great, but he knew it would be brief, so he attempted to exhale some of his stress, his fear. Cognisant of a few head bobs as his body drifted, his exhaustion ruling what was going on, at some point he felt a tug, a press of a warm hand, guiding, against his side, and suddenly he was a lot more comfortable, better aligned, as his head found something perfect height to rest against.

He awakened to the sensation of a tissue on his chin.

And bolted himself directly, immediately, rapidly back to a sitting position.

Sherlock was still seated next to him, and there was a compressed area of his shirt sleeve, and in Sherlock's outstretched hand, was a tissue. A slightly wet tissue. That had just wiped John's chin.

"Sorry. I draw the line at that." His eyes were somewhere between amused and very serious, and he gestured for John to take the white paper, to finish the task.

"Sorry myself. I uh ..." The bleary nature of an ill-timed awakening had him a little slower, but he blotted his chin, binned the used tissue, and stretched. "How long was I ...?"

"Not long, maybe thirty minutes. Pete stopped in a time or two, whispered he'd return. She's still asleep too." Sherlock considered John's fatigue, the wrinkles in his face (from leaning, which he pointed at with a fingertip), his energy level, his intense blinking, trying to moisten his eyes, and he frowned just a little. "Do you want to go sleep at home for a little? I mean, really, you're barely able to ... contain yourself. To keep things where they belong, apparently. I'll stay, if you want ..."

"No. No. I'm ... I need to be here. You can go if you want?"

"I'm not the one drooling."

"Not apologising. You're the one who ... put me there."

"Yes, well, I won't be making that mistake again."

"I think I'm going to go ... for a quick walk, get a cup of that horrid vending machine tea. Want one?"

"With that endorsement? Not a chance."

The snack machines weren't far, although John did appreciate the brief, escape, the activity, stretching, getting blood flowing again. The tea was too hot to drink, so he carried it back to the room. It surprised him a little that Sherlock was sprawled on the couch when he returned, eyes closed, fingers together, a resting, mind palace pose.

It wasn't until much later, John perched in the regular chair, tea nearly gone, Sherlock having actually fallen asleep, that Rosie stirred. It was a chaotic, restless awakening, though, and one that was a little disturbing. John reached her hands first, that were seeking the tape on her head, securing the monitor.

"Hey, hey, shh." With his other hand along her cheek, he attempted to get her attention. "You're all right. In the hospital, remember?"

"No. No, I'm not. You're lying," she hissed back, in a strange version of her voice. "Stop it. Let me up!"

"Rosie."

"I want to go home!"

"You're safe here, please," he tried to assure her as she twisted in bed, twisted her hand to get free. John continued to keep her hand within his own, preventing access to the (very important) monitor still in her head. There was noise behind him, the sensation of Sherlock's presence just behind his shoulder. "Listen to me, okay?" In response, she issued a despairing, guttural growl, then burst into tears, flopping back against the pillow, her chest heaving, the monitor alarming. John considered trying to explain things, but she wasn't in a state of mind to hear, or listen. So he just crooned, a few comforting words and phrases, fingers stroking along her temple, waiting for her to calm herself.

Pete, at the doorway, spoke slowly, quietly, "Need some help?"

John shook his head, but Rosie, hearing the other voice that she didn't recognise, called out again, "Help! I want to go home!"

Pete, bedside, sidled up to the bed, opposite John and held out his hand. "Hello. I'm Pete." Rosie only frowned. "I'm a nurse here. I've been taking care of you for a couple of days. Do you remember me?"

Obviously, Rosie didn't want to exactly, but she did scowl a little more and answer, "A little, yes."

"Nursing is my job. I take care of kids, teens, babies sometimes, here at the hospital." He hesitated briefly. "Do you know why you're here?" There was another shuddering jag, not quite another bout of tears, and she shook her head no. Then, leaning in a little bit secretively, he said, "How about I go grab us a pop, and we send your dad out for a quick walk, and talk for a little, okay?"

"I want to go home."

"I'm glad, because to be honest, this isn't usually a very nice place to me. But it is necessary for a little while yet. Now," he drew back to his earlier question. "What kind of pop do you like?"

"Coke."

"I'll be right back then."

John and Sherlock had barely exchanged skeptical glances when Pete returned, two cans of soda, two straws. "Go, take a breather. I know it's late, and dark, but it's pretty mild out, still, if you want to take a stroll down the block." The suggestion was shocking enough that neither of them were capable of doing anything other than a slow blink. "No, really, I mean it. Breathe a little fresh air, outside these walls. Rosie and I, we're good here. Go."

Sherlock was speaking the word no, when John said yes and took his elbow, directing them both out of Rosie's room. "Are you nutters?" Sherlock asked, wrenching his elbow from John's hold as soon as they were in the hallway.

"Look, kids - even Rosie, maybe especially Rosie - listen to other adults differently than their parents. Let him. He's been great with her. With us."

"He's barely been in the room tonight."

"Monitoring. Finishing up with -- you heard that other patient, they got a busy post op, settled now, so he's free." Obviously Sherlock hadn't been paying all that much attention to not-Rosie given his dubious expression. "A quick breath of fresh, cold, night air sounds good."

"Emphasis on cold."

"We have our jackets."

The progression to the main doors near A&E was silent, efficient, and a security guard nearby nodded at them as they tapped their visitor badges on the way outside.

Cool, brisk, refreshing air met them, and for a few moments, each savoured the clean air, inhaling cold into themselves. Nearby, several pedestrians passed, moving on in their lives, untouched by hospital situations and unplanned surgery and an accident that nearly changed absolutely everything. Even at the later evening hour, there was still a bit of hustle around them, the section of the city winding down, car noise and people noise and the sounds of life. With a shuddering breath, John turned to face the building, looking up the several floors, not realising exactly what he was doing until it was sharp and painful - which was being reminded of previous times, a hospital roof, looking up, barely breathing. Funny for all their years together, it still hit him. And then, in his slightly sweaty palm, Sherlock's hand appeared.

John faced him quickly, surprised and appreciative. "We're okay." Sherlock's words, a gentle declaration followed by a quick squeeze.

The smile was soft and instant. "I know. Long time ago."

"We were different people then."

"Thank goodness." John breathed deeply, again, not in a rush to remove his hand. "This, outside, out of the hospital?" Pausing, he gathered his thoughts. "Reminder that life goes on, that things will be normal again." Slowly, quietly, he glanced over at Sherlock, whose brow was furrowed at that pronouncement. His mood, not that it was light before, was deeper, somber. "What?"

"Normal's so ... overrated."

"Do you not want things ...?" The question began, and then he realised that Sherlock's handholding was slightly firmer. "Oh." It occurred to him that, perhaps, Sherlock didn't want a complete return. And, honestly, within himself, he didn't necessarily either. "I'm not saying, it won't change. But, moving on from this?" His eyes flicked to the hospital. "Back to Baker Street, the three of us, sounds --"

"As long as she's ready, you mean."

"Of course. They aren't going to let us go, if she isn't." A loud car, a few of them then, pass by, making conversation harder from the background noise. "Plus," John said, looking for just a hint of levity, "you've been on your very best behaviour, so they aren't looking for an early discharge just to be rid of you."

There was a purse to his mouth, an exhaled snicker. "I could change that, if it would be to our advantage. However ... she seems not exactly ready for home just yet." With a solemn nod, John shrugged in agreement, waiting for Sherlock to continue. "And ... speaking of changes, you should know that," by this point, he leaned in closer, "I'm not opposed to that in the least." Another pause. "Changes, I mean. For us."

In John's eyes passed multiple responses, all of them plainly obvious - what, do you mean it, are you sure, what I'm hearing you say, and finally, oh my god yes. The smile originated from deep within, making a presence on John's mouth, his eyes, and in the final movement of his hand, reaching up with careful fingertips, pad to stubble, to pull Sherlock's jaw closer. Closer. Closer.

Lips pressed in lightly, calmly, warmly. Neither closed their eyes. "Yes," John whispered once he'd pulled away just enough to speak, then brought their lips together again. This time, his own eyes drifted closed, his head angling enough to deepen the touch, his jaw opening, slanting their mouths together more firmly. It lasted an indeterminate amount of time before they stopped, lips apart, standing there, breathing, together. Settled. Close, definitely closer than friends, intimate, seeking comfort from the other. John could almost feel the tension easing, breathing fresh air, some of the uncertainty leaving as both of them stood there, reluctant to move apart.

The dusk of the street, a few tall lamps, passing auto lights, illumination from behind windows overlooking their area caught and shone on Sherlock's curls, John's silver. Nearby, a few pedestrians walking by, most in a determined, somewhere-to-be stride, paid the couple standing no attention whatsoever. Cool, brisk evening air, fresh and clear surrounded them, the faintest breeze earlier clearing exhaust fumes and remnants of the days events, meals, trash, life, and even vegetation not quite blooming. It was the sounds of two worlds intersecting - a hospital that never slept, a gateway of people going in or out, and beyond that, the evening routine of people, families, businesses. And there, in the middle, two men - a tumultuous past behind them, an uncertain present, a future yet to be determined.

For John, a turning point - and for Sherlock, the faint niggling of ... he wasn't quite sure how to quantify it.

From behind Sherlock's shoulder then, a familiar voice spoke in low tones, amused if not somewhat judgmental, "Perhaps you gentlemen" with slight emphasis on that word "would care to take this somewhere less public."

Mycroft.

"Nope," John spoke, and though his heart pounded at the thrill, at the words, at being observed, he acted as though there was all the time in the world before finally pulling back. "But, perhaps," he amended, whispering only to Sherlock, who's eyes were half-mast, a little foggy.

Sherlock regained his wits with alarming speed, pulling back, coat flipping amuck with its usual flair. "What do we owe the ... pleasure of your company?" His tone implied, stated that it was not at all pleasure.

"Came by to see how things were progressing. Clearly got more than I bargained for."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but rather than answer, he simply retorted, "Preposition much?"

John's interest was rapidly waning at the sibling theatrics, and he murmured, "I'm going back to Rosie's room. See you inside, whenever you're done here." Although it was something of a challenge, he walked directly into the hospital, not looking back.

++

The curtain was drawn, and John heard Rosie and Pete talking behind it as he entered the room. Pausing at the edge of the fabric, he asked quietly, "Will you be needing a moment?"

"No, all set," Pete answered with a whisking of the privacy curtain, the metal clips harsh and snappy as they slid open. Rosie was brightly awake, face flushed. "Just finished up here," he answered somewhat proudly, discreetly indicating the commode near the bed. "I'll be just a moment," and he disappeared into the attached loo.

"You got out of bed? And ... managed all of that?" John grinned as Rosie's smile grew confident. "Getting up went all right?"

"Bit of a throbbing head. Pete says that's ..." Her sentence trailed off in the middle, and she frowned.

"To be expected," Pete coached, reappearing with freshly cleaned equipment. "She did very well."

"I was ... dizzy and ...?"

"Yes, a little. You needed help. Next time up you'll do better. It'll get easier."

Rosie, at the center of attention, Pete and John watching her, blinked and looked away. John could see the hitch in her breathing, the gathering of a shimmer in her eyes, and was not surprised in the least when, in a wavery voice, said (again), "I just want to go home."

"I know." John leaned in close, gathering her best he could, around the monitors and splints and dressings and lines to be careful around, and spoke gently into her hair as he held her. "Soon. Soon as we can, love. Okay?"

Brisk footsteps approached, entered the room, the Holmes' brothers arriving. Alongside, Sherlock took a view of the room, noting differences, and he pinned his stare at Pete. Then back to the whiteboard on the wall. "What's that?" Before Pete could answer, he asked a follow up question. "Is that wise?"

"Oh, the list. Cues to the questions she asks a lot. It's just the facts, reassurances, reminders. It's an evidence-based approach and one we've been using for years. It's temporary."

John moved himself only enough to figure out what they were talking about. Across from Rosie's bed was indeed a short list:

     Car accident

     Surgery to relieve pressure

     Broken arm and collarbone

     Today is Monday: out of bed - good job!

     Tomorrow, Tuesday: lines out, walk

     Day after tomorrow Wednesday, possibly: go home!

Mycroft pulled something from his pocket, held in his outstretched hand toward Rosie, a handful of fabric in shades of purple. "For you, when you're ready."

"What is it?" she took it from him, awkwardly, fingers having trouble with the swelling, the bandages, to spread it out and identify it.

"A headband. this is the latest, softest, most sought after one of its type. For when you're ready to ..." he frowned just a little in the direction of her hair, "... ready to style it or keep it contained." He came closer to Rosie, clearly wanting to reach out to touch her, but given her bandages and lines, he settled for a tap over her splint. "Anthea assures me you'll like it."

"Thanks." Dropping the accessory, she reached up toward her hair, toward the monitor.

"Careful," John cautioned quietly. "There's a monitor. And a bandage."

"I know." Her hand paused in the air. "Is there a mirror? I want to see."

Pete found his words first, "I'll see if I can find one at the desk, okay? But you're looking pretty good. Little bit of a haircut where the doctor had to work. It'll grow fast."

Rosie scowled at the cast, glared at the other hand with the bandages, and finally let her arms rest on the bed once more. "Where is my mobile? And ..." Her voice caught and there was another frown. "Who was ...? Someone was ..." Her expression changed to almost one of discomfort as her thoughts were unclear, then she asked, "What happened to Sylvia?" Her eyes flew toward John. "Papa, Sylvia was in the car with me, we were ..." Her eyes, wide and horrified, pinned John, waiting.

"She's home."

"She's dead, isn't she?" There was a sudden burst of tears. "Papa?"

"No, no, she's okay. Parents got a little banged up. Sylvia wanted to come see you right away, but you were not awake, so she's waiting."

Rosie scowled, her expression uncertain and not quite believing the assurance. "Is my phone here?"

Pete intervened then, with calm, slow, comforting words. "Hey, hang on a minute. Take a deep breath, okay?" He touched her elbow, and both John and Mycroft backed off a little. "Good. I know it's terrible, following all these directions. From what I heard, Sylvia is okay. But she and her parents are all home now. As for the phone, I'm going to tell you the honest truth, okay?" He waited for Rosie to nod, and John could see how much Rosie was trying to follow, to listen, to obey, to cooperate. "Usually when this happens, when you have what we call a head injury like this, you follow?" He brushed lightly at the monitor, touching the edge of the dressing on her head, away from where any of the bruising was and away from the scab and stitches. She blinked slowly then nodded that she was indeed following. "... we've found it's important to really rest and let your brain heal. Which means that we really have to limit reading. Or mobiles. Or computers. Or even books." He paused. "And I know no one, especially someone your age, wants to hear that. But you will do better, heal quicker, feel more yourself, if we really pay attention to that, especially in the first ..."

John held his breath, hoping Pete didn't choose a time frame that was going to feel an eternity to Rosie.

"... few days, maybe a week." Her eyelids filled with unshed tears, her brows wrinkling in distress. "And I know you don't want that to be true. But it really is, okay? Sometimes we have to choose hard things that are good for us."

Pete didn't add too much, didn't continue, just let Rosie sit and his words sink in.

The tears spilled, and Rosie reached out a trembling, splinted arm toward John. "I want to go home," she said, slightly unintelligibly, sobs wracking her frame, her words, her body.

"I know."

The Holmes brothers took a sidebar over near the couch, talking in low tones while John lowered a siderail near Rosie and sat down, loathe to let go of her, loathe to be too far away, loathe to have her suffer alone.

"If I can't have my mobile, can you at least get it and see if anyone texted me?" Experimentally, she lifted her arms, one at a time. "This is going to make it hard, anyway. This stupid splint and ..." She caught sight of the headband again, picked it up. The diversion didn't last long, nor was it effective, and a moment or two later, her eyes welled up again.

And John took charge. "Look, Ro. It's getting late. You've had a ... well, frankly, a terrible few days. I think," and he looked directly at Mycroft, though gently and without glaring, "we'll call it a night. Let these nice people get on with their jobs, maybe take a load off." His hand slid over hers best he could, and he smoothed the tears from her cheeks. "You're going to be fine, I promise you. We'll figure it all out." Mycroft approached to bid her a brief, quick goodnight, and disappeared. Pete, too, agreed and dimmed almost all the lights, following John's lead, and offered a snack (which Rosie declined). "So I'm going to slide my shoes off, wrap up in a blanket, take a bit of a kip on the couch here." Her eyes, soulful and tentative, sought his, held, and she tried to nod. "You're handling a lot of hard things, love, and I'm so proud of you." Leaning in, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, moved the blankets about, tucked her stuffed monkey under her ear, and stood quietly as she calmed herself down, trying to let things settle.

"Call bell," Pete reminded them, tucking the nurse remote next to Rosie's hand. "Or, your two-legged call bells are nearby, too."

The humour was a bit lost on Rosie, but John managed to chuckle as Pete disappeared.

"Papa?" Rosie asked when the room was just the three of them, and John made a sound as he touched her arm, waiting for her to continue. Her voice was quiet, her face a little drawn, brows crumpled in concern as she asked, "Can we go home now?"

His plans to sleep on the couch changed, as Rosie was intermittently inconsolable - and forgetful. He spent much of the night dozing between restless periods on the recliner chair next to Rosie's bed.

If he couldn't be on Baker Street, with Sherlock and Rosie, this was exactly where John wanted - and needed - to be.

Chapter Text

++

It was dark, somewhere in between nursing rounds, those hourly checks on their patients, assuring things were all right, to intervene early if they weren't, keeping IVs flowing, patients comfortable, when Rosie made a sound of escalating alarm. It was followed almost immediately with sitting up, throwing her legs over - or nearly over - the side of the bed. Her words were jumbled, distressed. "Let me, I have to, get back." This was followed by a deep chest growl, a frustrated yearning. "I need ..." 

John was reasonably sure that the restlessness was due to an impending, uncomfortable physical need to use the bathroom, and while Sherlock put the call light on, John managed to keep Rosie under control as they waited for Pete. Or someone. "You have to use the loo, Rosie?" he asked, hoping for direction, and she scrambled again trying to get up. "Bring me that ... ," John directed as he pointed at the bedside commode chair. He could hear the sounds of the nurses dealing with another situation down the hall. 

Fortunately, Rosie's protests waned, she was too much in need, and likely not processing too much, and John was able to lower the siderail, get her slippers on, and help her with what she needed (while Sherlock all but fled into the hallway to wait). There was enough leeway on the monitor attached to her as well as the arterial line in her wrist, that no further adjustments were necessary. Once she was seated, covers and sheets and patient gown all bunched in front of her modestly, she blinked John into focus and said, "Oh god no, get out!"

To which John answered, trying to find humour in Rosie's demand, "Not on your life. You're fine. Just ..." and he made a gesture to proceed.

"Not until you," she began to threaten which was followed almost immediately by the sounds of success. When John moved to help her stand back up, dry off, she resisted, "I can do it."

He did actually back off, transported to memories of her early toddler days when she would say the exact same thing:  I can do it myself!

So he did now what he did then: he let her.

And it went well. Moments later, she was back in bed, and he offered out a cloth towel for her hands.

"So we'll be okay at home, right? You managed that almost by yourself, and ..." John stopped speaking mid-sentence. Rosie was nearly asleep again, eyes closed, turned a bit to the side, snuggled into the blankets once more. Chuckling softly to himself, he tucked the blanket so that it covered her shoulder just as Sherlock, having scoped out the scene, was coming back into the room. "Easy," John breathed quietly to him. "She's got this."

One of the nurses arrived then, breathless, apologetic, and then quietly celebratory that they had managed.

Somewhere nearing morning, Pete was back. John awakened first, and Pete held up the phlebotomy tubes, printer, and lab collection supplies. Nodding, John watched him as he silenced the alarm, then skillfully pulled off two tubes, one purple, the other tiger striped, then label and bag them. 

His voice was quiet as he touched Rosie's shoulder. "Good morning, young lady. I don't need you to wake up much, but I'm going to get rid of this IV site in your wrist, okay?" She made a noise, but her eyes didn't open. "Nod you head that you understand okay? Good, good." Gathering the rest of what he needed, he pulled the smaller folding chair close. "Just pulling a little tape here is all. Good thing your arms aren't that hairy, okay? Yes, I know. Just pulling ... pulling, there nearly done." He reached for a small stack of gauze before continuing. "Great, all set." Firmly, he wrapped his gloved hand around Rosie's wrist, holding the gauze over the spot where the arterial line had just been. "Just holding pressure here, going to wait five minutes before checking." Multi-tasking, Pete stretched up, silenced then removed the monitor cable, closed the roller clamp, deflated the pressure bag, all while keeping haemostasis. "Don't want you to bleed all over yourself. Or your blanket." He nudged monkey closer to her chin. "Or ... the monkey. What was his name again?"

Rosie answered, her sleepy words something that might have been monkey.

"Right, monkey." Both men on the couch were awake, watching, quietly letting Rosie rest if she could. "One more line out. Progress already." His smile at them was one of assurance, of competence, and almost fondness. "Not much longer, I think."

Listening, looking, John took a moment and then felt himself begin to smile back - and actually believe perhaps Pete was right.

++

"So." Larry glanced from Rosie to Sherlock and back to John. "There's no reason to leave the ICP monitor in, and plenty of reasons to get rid of it."

"So that's it?" John couldn't stop the question, reflexive, after the doc explained the quite simple procedure to remove the monitor. "Snip the sutures and ...?"

"And that's it, mostly. I'll put a small dressing on after. Shouldn't bother her at all. Usually the biggest complaint after is a mild headache. Understandable just for the accommodation going on."

"Shouldn't it be done somewhere sterile. Like the OR?" Sherlock asked.

"Not necessary. Nothing sterile about the outside of a person's noodle. No, wait, not noodle. Noggin."

Sherlock didn't react at all to Larry's comment for a few moments, then shook his head as if gravely disappointed. There was a quiet, defeated huff of annoyance followed by a bit of snippiness. "Are you sure, John, that this man is an actual surgeon?"

"This?" John made a circling motion with his index finger, still amused. "This is entirely your fault. You all but told him what buttons to push. And then you respond every single time." Leaning lightly against Sherlock's shoulder, a display of support despite the jibe, John then answered the question. "It'll be fine," John assured him, taking the edge of his elbow and leading Sherlock over to the couch, where they would wait. Larry had already gathered supplies, and one of the nurses had come in to help him. They masked up, explained gently to Rosie what was happening, and a few moments later, after scrubbing and dressing and patient support, they were done. There was a small gauze pad under a clear dressing on Rosie's head, the monitor tubing binned, the cable to the bedside display neatly coiled up and set aside. 

Rosie was quiet, still, listening and waiting. In quiet tones, she answered questions appropriately, told them she was just tired, and mostly was subdued. Not herself.

Sherlock, staring, barely noticed when John reached for his hand. John squeezed briefly, puzzled. "You all right?" Atypically, Sherlock didn't really respond for a moment. "What's wrong?"

To John, taking them both a step back, Sherlock shared his alarmed thoughts. "What if the pressure builds up again? There's no way to measure, and what if she ..." 

John's index finger appeared over Sherlock's mouth. "I know you're worried. Me too. But we're watching, and she's really recovering pretty well."

"This is not pretty well. She's ..." He could have completed that sentence in multiple, discouraging ways. A shell. Flat. Not Rosie. He changed topics. "What I don't understand, is why you're not more bothered."

One corner of John's mouth raised. "Because we get glimpses of her. And they'll be more frequent. She's strong, Sherlock. And young. Resilient."

Blinking and looking away, Sherlock grew quiet himself. "If you say so," he breathed, though it was blatantly obvious he didn't believe his own words.

In answer, John drew him quickly into a brief yet comforting embrace. "You can trust me."

As John began to draw away, Sherlock's arms tightened, resisting, protesting. "That? I can believe," he whispered, his lips lightly brushing against John's hair.

++

Later, they were able to determine that yes, she did have a headache. Which led to mild pain medications, and then a nap. During which, Sherlock tried to send John home to shower and change.

"No, I'm good."

"Actually, what you are is ripe."

"Piss off." John checked, a faint sniff toward his shoulder. "And I am not. You go, shower, Mr. Posh can't skip a day, and if you want, you can bring me back something and I'll shower here."

"Rosie will be okay while you're gone. I'll be here. Pretty sure, between myself and this whole hospital of staff and providers, I can manage to keep Rosie you know, at a minimum, breathing until you get back."

John hesitated, knowing Sherlock spoke the truth, yet he didn't especially want to leave her. Or for that matter, to leave him.

"You'll feel better, you know I'm right."

It suddenly sounded like a good idea, and John glanced at Rosie, saw how peacefully she was sleeping, that she wasn't in distress, that the fever threatening the previous day was absent. "All right." He stood, and uncertainty descended, but Sherlock was ready and goaded and prodded until John was armed with mobile and jacket, and striding from the room.

++

When John returned, what seemed an eternity or several minutes, he was carrying a few things for Rosie, her own pyjamas, slippers, a favourite jacket. Brewed Baker Street tea in a travel mug. A journal for Sherlock. The tin of biscuits left them by Mrs. Hudson. It was refreshing, actually, and he was completely glad he'd left, even just for that brief span of minutes. That said, he drew up short when he arrived into the room. The empty room.

Rosie's bed - the entire room, actually - was empty.

John took stock. Bed, still unmade, belongings nearby, a quick check in the bathroom, which was also empty. The bedside monitor, though, had a display with a flashing yellow bar marked "Telemetry" so they were all right. Rosie was, anyway. Part of him wanted to track down, to chase, to locate. The rest of him, relieved by the remote assurance (low hundreds, normal with activity, no distress noted) that Rosie was indeed alive, nearby, breathing - as Sherlock had joked - took a deep breath and eased into the tall backed chair in the corner to wait. 

It wasn't long.

"See, I told you you could do it," Sherlock's voice was gentle, approaching from the hallway.

"You made me."

"Gently persuaded."

"Forced."

"Oh, hi papa," Sherlock prompted. Then in her silence, prompted again, good natured yet intentional.

Rosie, standing awkwardly, an arm linked into Sherlock's elbow, echoed his words flatly as she shuffled toward the bed. She was untethered by anything artificial, no IV pumps or attached monitors, just a telemetry pouch that wirelessly displayed her heart rhythm on both the monitor in the room and presumably the central one at the nurses station. The bandage on her head seemed to stand out a little more, just given that it was all that was left, bright white, a remnant of her wounds.

"Great to see you up." John spoke, quietly, watching the both of them. "Thought maybe you'd decided to walk home."

"I wanted my mobile. But he said not until I walked." Eyes closed, Rosie tilted awkwardly against her pillow, feet still sort of on the floor, twisted at the waist as she spoke.

John met eyes, concerned, with Sherlock, just given the recommendation Rosie avoid screens for the time being. "Actually I didn't say that. What I did say, if you recall, was why don't we go for a walk instead."

"I want to text Sylvia."

"All right," John said, as kindly as he could. "But, and this is a big condition, Rosie. I'll do the messaging for you."

Her defeated exhale said all that was necessary, no actual words required. "Never mind." Still crooked in the bed, Rosie sort of wilted, drooping with her shoulders, her affect. The sag was brief, though; moments later, she sat up. "I'm off to the loo," she said then, almost suddenly, then stood, a hand on the half siderail of the bed to keep her steady.

A few steps brought John to her side. "I'll walk you in," which he did, cautioning her about the call bell if she needed it, and that he'd be close by.

Neither of them expected much, just the routine sounds of plumbing, a few moments going by, quietly, without alarm.

But then, John with his shoulder close to the crack in the door, heard a sniffle. And then another.

"Rosie?" he asked, not waiting for an answer, and slid the door open.

Rosie, in the harshness of the flourescent light, was leaning against the vanity over the sink. Utilitarian, hospital grade, no-frills, the bathroom was all about purpose. In her hand she clasped a mittful of paper towels, having obviously washed and (mostly) dried her hands. The bandages were still on the one hand, loosely, covering the scrapes and cuts from the glass of the car windshield. A few of them had needed stitches but were beginning to heal. Her other wrist, encased on the splints from the orthopaedic surgeon who'd visited. The splints were wrapped by several ace bandages. 

She was staring hard into the mirror, tears flowing, mouth in a pouty, childlike downturn. In her fingers, she was touching and holding the hair just next to where it'd been nearly shaved for the surgery. The white-ness of the bandage, under the clear tape, nearly reflected in the bright light. It was the pain in her eyes, though, that brought John immediately to her side. "I'm sorry," he breathed, ready to hold her as soon as she would allow. "There was no choice."

"I know." A quiet wail all the more heartbreaking for her wounded expression.

"It'll grow." Although she made some attempt at verbally acknowledging that, no sound came and she nodded instead. Softly, slowly, John's arms reached around and Rosie did not pull away. The relief, her allowing the hug, crying now into his shoulder, clinging to his shirt, although heartbreaking was necessary. John was well acquainted that moving forward was hard without first feeling the hurts. She sagged into him, and he could feel all he paternal love he had for this amazing child, this young woman. He nuzzled at the top of her head, away from the surgery of course. "You'll be fine, back to normal soon." There was a little hiccup, Rosie disbelieving him perhaps, scoffing at the reassurance. It was, John knew, rather Sherlock-esque. "This'll pass, Ro."

"I want to go home." The words, though she'd spoken them - sobbed them - before, each time they hurt a little more.

"Hopefully, tomorrow. I think you're on track."

Her shoulders, always thin, today thin and frail, fragile, shook as he lightly rubbed circles, comforting, on her back. Her tears stopped, she was probably just too exhausted to continue, and a moment or two after she'd settled a little more fully against John, the door slid the rest of the way open and Sherlock, no-nonsense, tipped Rosie's chin up so that she would look at him.

"You have earned your scars, Rosamund. They have saved you," he paused for emphasis, lowered his voice before finishing, "munchkin." The nickname, one seldom used, always struck a chord, a commonality, a bond between the pair.

++

It happened to most children, if not all, in fact. The split eyebrow of childhood, a rite of passage, nearly everyone had a tale, a white mark, a faint divot, a scar. Sometimes the chin, lip, forehead. For Rosie, though, her eyebrow.

For Rosie, it happened like many, a trip and fall against a hard object, a smattering of blood dripping down her eyelid, her cheek, off her chin.

There was minimal bloodshed, but maximum drama and panic, given her age involved. And a full-body, flailing, resisting, fighting armful of three year old. Because, it just so happened to occur while John was at the shoppes.

So when reasoning failed, and pleading failed, and logic failed, Sherlock resorted to what many have to - the act of pinning a tiny body, of holding arms still so that he could apply first direct pressure to stop the bleeding, followed by an ice pack to minimise swelling, to pass the minutes before she calmed, while they awaited the return of Rosie's father. Her big gulpy sighs faded to nearly nothing and gradually, he was able to relax his hold that restrained her, reminding himself that enacting parental limits (or parental-role, as the case may be) was occasionally necessary for the good of the child. And her lip showed the benefit, the bleeding stopped (her shirt, probably salvageable), the swelling minimal, the out of control hysteria gone, and Rosie was actually resting, leaning against him, drawing comfort from his warmth and (presumable) reduction in pain.

"Papa?" she'd whispered. With small hands, she pushed away his that was holding the ice to her lip. Then, just as daintily, when her lip began to throb anew, she pulled at his hands to restore the pain-relieving ice pack.

"Soon, munchkin," came the word out of his mouth, unbidden. At the word, something tickled her fancy and she began to giggle. At first it was short-lived, but he said it again, a test, "Munchkin!" and she dissolved into belly laughs. There was a book within reach, which he picked up, and she rested, listened, pointed at pictures when he asked.

When John arrived home, had it not been for the shirt soaking in the kitchen sink, he may never have known exactly what had happened.

The word, though, munchkin, was oft-enough used in her childhood. When it was spoken by anyone else, Rosie couldn't have cared less. But when he said it, when it was a moment at home, she would always straighten up, look him square in the eye, and, if the mood was right, she would give him a very sweet, very heartfelt, very appreciative and usually sassy grin.

++

"Munchkin," Sherlock's baritone hung up on the word, a thickness in his throat. It was, of course, noticed by John too. The emotion and history and meaning.

At the word now, in the hospital, standing an awkward three-way hug, Rosie tipped her head into Sherlock's upper arm. A response. A siren call. An echo of a complicated journey, of their connection.

"In the meantime, I have a plan."

++

"There. I think that ... I think it's ..." Sherlock could have finished that sentence in many ways, yet didn't want to make Rosie feel even minutely uncomfortable. Better, implying it wasn't good before. An improvement, meaning she needed to be improved on. Passable? Yuck, no.

"It's good," John offered, quickly. "It works."

They stood near each other, still in the bathroom of Rosie's ICU hospital room. The fluorescent light, sharp, edging the mirror, illuminated many things as the trio considered their reflection. Rosie's reflection, specifically.

A headband, floral, twisted, wrapped around lightly Rosie's long, sandy hair. It covered the entirety of the bandage and nearly all of the area that had been trimmed, lifting her hair up and back, off her face, taming it, controlling it.

If any of them were feeling brutally honest, she was beyond fatigued. And she looked every bit of it. There were darker circles under her eyes, some bruising still on her temple, pain in her expression - not only with physical origins but the rest too. Stressful situations took a toll, even in a teenager. Perhaps, especially in a teenager.

"You're beautiful," John spoke. "Always. But, if you feel better?" His fingers smoothed down a layer of her hair, eventually running his index finger ghostily along her nose. "It's nice."

"Except that Mycroft brought it." Predictably, Sherlock's acerbic observation.

Huffing, John snorted softly, "I'm quite sure he didn't do the actual selection."

"Better," Sherlock whispered, a guttural snort in the makings if someone were paying attention, "somewhat."

There was a frown, and Rosie reached up stiffly, slowly, toward the band to adjust it, scrunching it up along her hairline. "I don't know. Really?"

"You did nearly get flattened by a car. I should say this is remarkable." Sherlock couldn't stop his own snark, his own unfiltered narration. "What?" he asked, when John's eyes widened in shock, then dismay. "Too soon?"

"Perhaps ever, yes," he said then turned to Rosie to begin the inevitable damage control, undoing the hurtful truth of Sherlock's statement. But Rosie's eyes squinted a little in thought, then began shining, her mouth ready to smile, and she let out a small chuckle of her own, half-hearted though it was.

"I might need another one," she suggested. "Maybe in purple."

The relief that surged through John, seeing her personality, watching her navigate a smidgeon of dark humour, to see her actually (almost) chuckle in amusement - it was a plunge back into a world of normalcy, of recovery, of hope. He savoured that for a moment, and mentioned that they would see that she get another, purple. Under his breath, he added that she could have whatever she wanted.

Sherlock, mobile in hand, nodded curtly to the device, an exclamation of quiet accomplishment. His eyes twitched from John to Rosie then specifically at her headband. "Done."

The exertion of her walk, of being in front of the mirror, had worn her out. She'd barely made it, assisted of course, back to the bed before her eyes closed. She didn't notice that John tucked her blanket up around her. And she definitely didn't pick up on the fact that the two men standing at her bedside, leaned quietly, solidly into the other, fingers brushing then entwining. Nor did she notice one man's press of lips into a silver blond temple nor the faint exhale of pleasure in response.

"So exactly how many headbands did you purchase?"

"Eleven."

For the briefest of moments, John wasn't entirely sure if Sherlock was teasing or not. But of course, he knew. "Only eleven?" he whispered back, turning so that a little more of his skin contacted Sherlock's. There was a brief repositioning of arms, of feet, but once they were comfortable, each managed to settle, to breathe out, to relax, to know that Rosie was most assuredly on the mend.

++

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Hesitating by the door, Sherlock paused to clarify.

Smiling, John shook his head. "Go. I'm glad I listened to you, the shower, the fresh air, the ... bit of a break was good. I didn't realise how much I needed it."

"Going to swing by to see Greg after. And I'll bring lunch back with me. Maybe I'll bring Rosie that ... salad bowl nonsense she likes?"

"Sure. Take your time. She's down for the count, and I brought back a book, so ..."

There were a few awkward moments, John at a bit of a loss as to how he felt he should say goodbye (casual wave) with how he wanted to say goodbye (bit of a touch, even a lean, a hug, a hand-holding squeeze). In the end, Sherlock's face coloured and he strode from the room.

Sipping from his own water bottle, he settled in on the couch, his legs propped up. The book entertained him for a little while, until his own eyelids grew heavy and he leaned back. Just for a moment.

++

There was a day-time dream involved, but nothing that stuck with his memory long enough. But whatever it was, he startled awake, plenty of daylight coming in from the window in Rosie's hospital room. Somewhere, sirens were blaring and his first association was that it was remnants of his dream, whatever sort of emergency going on. It was already buried, irrelevant, a past memory.

The whisps of sleep evaporated and as he sat up, he was struck with the fact that not all of his dream was inside his head; the alarm was audible, coming from the heart monitor.

Rosie, still mostly asleep, clearly having some sort of distress, perhaps a nightmare herself. Her heart rate was up, hence the alarm that was sounding, but she was clearly beginning to awaken in a very distressed state. He was on his feet and at her side just as one of the nurses was coming in the room, too.

"Hey, Rosie. It's okay. Wake up a little, you're all right." Tapping her lightly on the shoulder, he attempted to rouse her.

His words should have been soothing, instead, they seemed to make things worse. Her hands came up, one of them in the splint, to fuss at him, to push him frantically away. Her eyes opened quickly, blinking, somewhat blankly looking around as if she recognised nothing and no one. "Get off! I need to ... I want to go home! You can't keep me here!" She was breathing fast, desperate, distressed.

The nurse stood hesitantly at the doorway, letting John make the attempts to calm her down, to reason with her. 

Wide-eyed, panicking, Rosie tried to sit up, pushing John best she could though ineffectively, and she called to the nurse. "Hey, come here! This man ... I need to get out of here. You need to call my father. And ... oh god, let me up!"

"Rosie!" John spoke to her low and in almost a whisper, hoping it would offset her higher pitched, louder fussing. "Rosie?"

Her hand gave up on pushing him away, seeking out instead her heart monitor leads, pulling them off, then moving toward her head seeking what must have been very odd sensations there. "Get off me!"

She was listening not at all to John, and the nurse approached John's side, looking to help. Also in a whisper, she stopped short before actually touching Rosie, and asked, "What's wrong, Miss Rosie?"

The question, for a moment, stopped her abruptly and she blinked a few times as if trying to clear her vision. "I don't know," Rosie hissed, clearly disoriented and confused. "Everything." The hand resumed the target of the dressing on her head, so the nurse very gently sought the misbehaving hand, holding it gently, preventing her from removing the protective bandage. "No," Rosie fussed then, "I need to ..." The hand stopped, redirected, and she flung a leg over the siderail of the bed.

"Oh sweetheart," John said, gently, "Stay in bed for a moment. Please."

Between he and the nurse, Rosie did finally, finally stop struggling and behaving so impulsively. The fog, though, remained far longer than John expected, and he stood quite near Rosie, the nurse taking a targeted assessment. Rosie was able to answer the questions of name, age, and correctly identifying John. But she had no idea exactly where she was, nor the circumstances that brought her in. There was no exact physical deficit, though; Rosie was equally strong, able to identify pictures, words, and demonstrate her dexterity, coordination, and sensation. "I'm not overly alarmed," the nurse murmured, "exactly. But Dr. Morgan is going to want to know anyway. I'll reach out, and I'll let you know what he says."

When she left, Rosie looked over at John and burst into tears. "Where were you? I was all alone!"

Although he assured her that indeed he was here, she was having none of it. She did, though, fortunately, calm down.

Instead of an update from the nurse, or a message from one of the doctors, about ten minutes later, in strolled Larry.

To find Rosie back to her baseline, oriented to person, place, time, and event. But exhausted, and she didn't recall being confused or that she hadn't recognised John.

"So I just had to come visit my star patient," Larry told her. "Any pain right now?"

"Just my ..." she held up both wrists, wriggling her fingers. Then she frowned, hesitating, "And I don't feel ... right. Something's just not ..." She shook her head, then gave a giant exhale of discouragement, of resignation. "Can I go home now?"

"Well," Larry began, "I'd like to still plan on tomorrow. We'll watch tonight, make sure there's no fever, that you're maybe feeling a little more yourself in the morning." He smiled at her, touching the tip of her toe under the blankets just barely. "I hear you went for a walk in the hallway today."

She didn't acknowledge that, but in her mind, John could tell she linked it with something when she said, coolly, "I want my mobile back."

"I'd be worried if you didn't. Your father explained why, though, right? We really need to let your brain rest. But in the morning, I'll bring a schedule of when you can do that again, okay? It'll start with a few minutes every day, and if you don't get bad headaches or other symptoms, we can increase, all right?"

"Starting tomorrow?"

"Probably not for another few days, perhaps a week or so yet."

"Can I put my music on? With my headphones?"

"Not yet, sorry to say. But when I come back in the morning, you and I will talk about that, too." He glanced toward John and explained further, "There are actually protocols as to how much, and when. I'll see if we can print that out for you all."

Nodding, John couldn't stop the worry from his expression, and Larry, noticing, gestured for him to speak his mind. So John asked quietly, "The confusion was ... pretty profound. I know you said she doesn't need one, but... I'm missing why. Explain what a CAT scan would or wouldn't do for us, now." Quickly, he realised the imperiousness of the demand, and began to backpedal, "I mean, ... It just seems ..."

Larry waved him off mid-sentence. "No, great question. Of course we would all like three times a day CAT scans on almost all of our patients. And lab work, almost as frequently, right?" His tone was super friendly, a little bit teasing, and he met John with these truths that John agreed with, fully. "However. Right now, surgery was what, three days ago now?" John nodded, thinking that it seemed like much longer - and much more recently. "I can dictate the report to you without getting it done:  Vasogenic oedema just related to the surgery. It would follow the path of the drain that's now out. There would be a somewhat compressed ventricle, maybe just along the frontal lobe sulci. Minor. No midline shift." He pondered a moment while looking at Rosie, who had grown bored with the both of them, eyes closed, fingers brushing the edge of her bandage. "I'm not saying no, never. I am, however, saying right now, her exam clears. There's no focal deficit. There are plenty of reasons for her to be stressed, though we don't usually see to the point of confusion. Sleep deficit is, of course, huge. Her labs this morning were all reassuring. Normal. Temp curve is back down." The bedside monitor was just next to him, and Larry touched a few buttons, scrolled through her blood pressures. "If she does that again, the confusion I mean, the restless agitation, I'll order one then. Though it'll show exactly what I said. Until then, we minimise radiation exposure, and let her be thirteen and exhausted. And tomorrow, going home, she'll get more rest there."

"I'd rest here if you would all stop talking," she groused quietly. "Or give me my mobile, and I won't complain at all." She opened an eye to make sure John heard, then closed it again when he smiled sadly and shook his head at her.

The rest of the plan made sense, though, and Larry chatted a bit more with John before stepping out, then turned back to speak to Rosie again, "I'll be keeping watch, so behave yourself young lady."

"Ugh," Rosie groaned before turning her head, dragging the pillow up around her ears to block out the voices.

++

Sherlock was not easily convinced that a CAT scan, right that very moment, wasn't necessary. John explained about the post-operative expected swelling, the radiation exposure, the other reasons that certainly could explain her behaviour, but he still seemed entirely too willing to enlist Mycroft to turn the screws on the surgeon.

"Please don't," John said, with a somewhat serious chuckle. "He's done well so far, and she's all right." When Sherlock narrowed and eye, tilted his head, John heard the unspoken manifest doubts. "He's right."

Darkly, he said nothing but handed John the sack of food he'd brought. Rosie was also relieved to see something she enjoyed rather than hospital food, and the afternoon passed fairly well. She was in and out of bed a few times, and despite John's encouragement to actually sit in a chair, Rosie would only say that she was tired and flop gently into bed.

One of the nurses brought in the concussion protocol, which included neurosurgical recovery, and John spent a few minutes reviewing the length of time they'd be needing to rather strictly manage Rosie's screen time and other focused activities. The explanation of a gradual, symptom based plan, individualised for each patient, was explained and could begin on the third or fourth day home (longer if necessary, again, based on her progress), which John felt not only fair but do-able. Music was not specifically prohibited for short periods of time, though volumes needed to be moderately low and diffused in a room (rather than with headphones of any type). Rosie was still resting when another a package arrived, delivered by presumably one of Mycroft's staff. Rosie awakened and, moments later, was holding a high end model of a bluetooth speaker. In purple.

"That was kind," John mentioned as Sherlock seemed ready to complain.

"I'd rather have had him orchestrate a medical coup that ended with a parade to the CAT scanner."

"Stop. Sometimes less is more, all right? We don't need to stress her out, or ourselves, okay?" John retrieved the bag the speakers had been on, and asked, "So, any specific music you want to listen to for a little while? Doc says we can try that, see how it goes." Sherlock's face caught John up short, and while Rosie gave the question some thought, John felt a rush of emotion surge through him. Sherlock was worried. And showing it. His face was clouded with a frown, anxiety showing in his pale eyes and the set of his brow. "I swear to you," he said in a very low voice, "if she starts getting worse, we will have all the right things done. Testing, whatever. I promise you." His mouth puckered, and he nodded, his eyes glancing back toward where Rosie was checking out the purple-accented speaker.

"Coldplay."

For Rosie's age, between the two of them, she'd been exposed throughout her lifetime to a wide variety of music, and all of them did greatly enjoy that group. Though both John and Sherlock attempted it, Sherlock managed to connect to the speakers and open the playlist first. They carefully made sure the volume was okay, and Rosie actually seemed to relax a bit more once the music was playing.

++

"So I think that's just about all of it." The night had passed uneventfully, Rosie mostly quiet, no issues, stable, and her morning bloodwork had been reassuring. She had been cleared for discharge.

Bedside, Larry had already reviewed the situation, the discharge instructions, the follow up plan, and stared at John for a few moments while he considered it. "Questions?"

"I don't think so. Nothing you can answer, I mean, unless you see the future and how long this will go on."

"I skipped that class in med school, sorry." While John snickered softly at that, Larry continued, "Monitor for fever, recurrent or increased confusion would be a problem, or unsteady gait where it's been good before." He pointed to the white bandage sill on her head. "That can come off tomorrow. There should be no drainage, leave it open to air, dry it gently after washing. Hold off until everything is scabbed and dry before shampooing. Call with any questions." Glancing over at Sherlock, he grinned wryly and added, "Careful with that noggin, young lady, all right? See you in my office in two weeks."

"Noggin," Sherlock breathed quietly to himself, shaking his head. "Ridiculous."

++

Mycroft's car and driver, prompt, punctual, quietly efficient, dropped the trio off at Baker Street. The driver, understated, armed with mobile, likely a concealed weapon, and all sorts of technology, offered to escort them to the door.

"We're fine," John said, somewhat absently, keeping an eye on Rosie as she waited quietly for instructions. "Out you go, love. We're home." Gently, he took her arm once she was standing, supporting her around her back, too, and guided her to the front door. "No rush, okay?"

Her face, mostly flat and reserved, frowned a little at the words, but she nodded. The ascent up the steps was mostly a serious affair, John worrying, Rosie concentrating, Sherlock carrying several bags of belongings from car to flat. John paused, he and Rosie, at the landing, checking in with Rosie.

"All right?"

Her response was wordlessly eloquent - an affirmative shaking of her head, a shrug, a smirk, a mirthful moue, and a puzzled frown. A yes, no, no really, I don't know, and 'of course I'm not' all wrapped up in that one, sweet face.

"Little further, and you can sit down. Or lie down." He added a few blithe encouragements, that she was doing well, almost there, and good job. "Here's the door open, and in you go." Still quietly, very serious, Rosie shrugged out of where John was holding her elbow, and lowered her head, making a careful, slow, ducking, slow-motioned tip onto the couch.

Sherlock, closing the door behind them, lowered the bags and, next to John, just stood there, the two of them, blinking, looking at Rosie. They fussed, quietly enough not to disturb Rosie, with the bags of belongings, covering Rosie with her blanket, tucking the monkey in by her hands, brewing tea (finally), and putting things back to order.

She slept on.

++

"I think I could do it," Sherlock challenged, a brow raising as he sat at the kitchen table next to John. Their banter, clipped and direct, was quietly flying back and forth over a cup of tea. Over a wonderful, home-made, perfectly sweetened cup of tea, served in reassuring, normal ceramic mugs. That rested, between sips, on their kitchen table at home on Baker Street. Where all of them belonged, finally, after something of an ordeal. If pressed, John would have said it's been somewhere between two days and an arduous month. It had, actually, been six days. Or something like that. "I'm sure I could."

"You are not putting Rosie on a wireless heart monitor."

"John, how will we --"

"No." 

"I think we should be able to --"

"Stop," John spoke fondly, calmly, knowing the root of Sherlock's worries (and, to no small degree, feeling them himself, if he was completely honest). Rosie, still on the couch, snuggled under the blanket she loved, slept on, quietly. Other than the bandage on her head, she was free of the rest of the hospital entrapments - monitor, IV sites, devices, the hideous patient gown. She was breathing easily, her skin still a little pale but overall good in colour. Her face was relaxed, and she finally looked at ease. Peaceful. "She's okay." In reply, Sherlock huffed a small breath over a defiant displeased set of his jaw, but kept silent. "I promise you, she's okay. She'll let us know, or we'll see it, very plainly, if she's not."

"I disagree." With another frustrated sigh, he flicked the screen of his mobile toward John to show him. "This one comes with a temperature readout. We would know immediately if she has a fever, and ..."

"Shh." Impulsively, John leaned forward to take Sherlock's face between his hands and pulled him quickly closer, pressing his lips gently, comfortingly over Sherlock's. "Deep breath. We'll all be all right."

One eye narrowed, though he didn't push John away, instead leaning closer to bring their lips together again. "You're distracting me."

Precisely my plan, John didn't need to say, but his smile, the glimmer in his eye and his expression said it all. He stretched back once more in the chair, sipping at his tea, savouring both it and being home, all of them together back where they belonged.

Chapter Text

"Hey," he spoke quietly, then again, along with a gentle brush over her shoulder. "Something to drink, Ro?" John knew she was exhausted, that she needed the rest, but he'd waited as long as he was comfortable, to get some hydration or nutrition into her. Hopefully both. They'd just been discharged from the hospital that morning, and Rosie had been sleeping, prone on the couch since their labourious climb of the stairs. Home.

One eye opened, her fatigue evident, and slowly, she blinked. "Iced tea. Sweet?"

"We can do that," John said while Sherlock, nodding went to the kitchen in search of her request. "Of course," John perched on the couch next to her, rubbing her back gently. As expected, she arched a little, stretched, and offered up a tiny, lazy, contented smile at him. She'd loved his backrubs since she was a baby. John smiled back at his daughter. "I was thinking maybe ... Thai for dinner? Or that Indian place, those samosas you like?"

"Thai. That curry is too ...?" Abruptly, her voice trailed off and, with a little surprise, she pushed up a bit on an elbow with a frown. She appeared to be struggling with finishing her sentence, and was a little puzzled herself, surprised, as the word eluded her.

John waited her out, or attempted to, letting her wake up more fully and come up with what she was looking for. Though he knew the word was supposed to be 'spicy'. Over her shoulder, John could see Sherlock in the doorway of the kitchen, too, watching, listening, waiting. For a moment, he reminded John of an owl: staring, vigilant, unblinking, laser-focused.

"I don't know," she murmured, closing her eyes, laying back down into the pillow. Frowning now himself, John looked intently at Sherlock, who was looking back just as seriously.

"That's ..." Sherlock began, softly, barely audible.

"Somewhat expected. We'll keep an eye on it." John could see Sherlock was skeptical, so he added a reminder in a whisper, "She's been through a lot." Then, turning back to where his daughter lay on the couch, eyes open, kind of drifting, he spoke to her again. "Too spicy. So, good, we'll get Thai tonight."

Rosie made a faint noise in her throat as she heard the word she'd been searching for, but that was her only response.

++

Her headaches lessened a little over a few days, and she attempted to catch up on her missing sleep with some degree of success. The steps to and from her bedroom were exhausting, though, and they minimised the number of times she would go up and down during the day. Her appetite was fair. Now and then, however, she would struggle to find a word - a common, everyday word, and after a few days, when it didn't seem to be improving, John reached out to her physician just out of an abundance of caution. He was, of course, reassured that concussion care could take a long time, and that they should continue very slowly in her recovery phase. Screen time, focus, concentration, over-stimulation were all things they should hold off on, best they could, including returning to school or doing homework. The recommendations were still to start very minimally and increase very slowly and gradually based on her symptoms. Although John expected nothing new, nothing changing, it was still reassuring that they were on track. Also reassuring was Larry's reminder about something else, that Rosie wasn't talking much in the hospital and now that she was, the situation was very much more evident. Larry had a few other things to offer, too, and they went back and forth a few times with details, suggestions, and plans.

"That's ... ridiculous," Sherlock finally seethed when John explained it, along with the rest of the discussion and recommendations. Rosie was already upstairs, and all seemed quiet for the evening. "She's going to get behind in her studies."

"I hear you. But we can't push her, not really. It's too risky. I'd rather have her catch up, say, over the next couple months, than for her to have ... any sort of permanent or lingering problems."  Sherlock's scowl deepened, and John tried another tack. "One of those problems is much more readily fixable than the other."

Stormy, brooding, Sherlock let his silence convey his reluctant acceptance, if not agreement. Then he pulled at another thread, hoping not to unravel things, "When does he think she should start the home therapy you mentioned?"

"I'll make a few calls tomorrow, see what the schedule would be like. I think we could start anytime, just for some baseline info. Low key in the beginning. Make a treatment plan with the professionals."

"She's not going to like it," Sherlock observed. "Not at all."

"No, she is not." Without needing to speak it aloud, they both were aware of the needs must directive. "I agree with the plan, though. Starting too early with therapy is less problematic than waiting too long. Larry says there's a pretty wide window, but ... well, I think I'll see about getting started. Gently."

The bigger problem, they knew, was going to getting Rosie herself on board. It was, indeed, challenging.

"What? I don't want home ... therapy." The wail was quiet and slow, more heart-breaking than a high-volume yell would have been. "Why can't I just go back to school!?" Rosie herself had just broached the subject, asked about when she can see her friends, go shopping, start classes again, to start feeling more normal. She wouldn't have been able to do it yet, just with her energy and focus being very lackluster. But she knew she wanted to. Neither of them mentioned the purple hair band that she wore to cover the scar on her head, the hair barely even growing back yet. Her initial angry reaction to John's explanation was followed very quickly with tears. And a slow walk up the stairs. And a somehow underwhelming, defeated, shutting of the bedroom door.

Somehow that was louder than a slam would have been. Definitely more discouraging. It was sad and defeated.

"Well," John murmured once they could hear the music turn on, moderate volume that would keep their conversation somewhat private, "that was bloody awful."

For a moment, both were quiet, introspective, considering the faint possibility that this journey could end up longer and more arduous than they were expecting. "John?" Sherlock finally spoke again, low, and although he didn't voice the rest of his concern, it was obvious from his tone, his expression, that he was pondering deep thoughts and Sherlock was encouraging him to share, if he wanted to.

"I hear you," John breathed back, knowing that Sherlock was opening a door for him to share, to unload. "And I'm reminding myself while reassuring you, there's every good expectation that she will have a full and complete recovery. For all the reasons we've already talked about. It's too soon, really, to be borrowing trouble and making plans for ... " The words he could have used - permanent, lasting, chronic, followed by even more terrible words like disability, deficit, or damaged - circled, buzzards in his thoughts. He refused to utter them.

"You're right." Sherlock, seeing John's trajectory, took something of an opposite stance, the reassurance John needed now prompting the change. "Lot of progress since the accident, and it's reasonable to assume it will continue." He could see John wrestling with discouragement and, seeking distraction, John murmured something about tea and stood up to embrace something else to think about.

Sherlock stood, too, catching John by the arm. Both of them looked at Sherlock's hand gripping John's elbow then made eye contact. It wasn't a conscious decision on either of their parts, but somehow, mutually, they leaned in, the need for touch, for understanding, for support paramount. They ended up in a quiet embrace, strong arms, a shoulder, the faint movement of breathing. No further words were exchanged, and after a few moments, Sherlock initiated the faintest of a quiet kiss. His lips, dry against John's. It was affection and tenderness. They parted after a few nuzzles, the quickest brush of parted lips.

Shortly, two mugs of tea, steaming, steeping were side by side on the table. "I'll be right back. Going to make sure she's okay. Not too upset." It was only a few moments later, or so it seemed, that he returned to find that Sherlock had readied his tea. "She's quiet. But I reminded her it won't always be like this." The tea wasn't nearly as satisfying as it could have been.

++

The evening dragged, telly more unfulfilling than usual, and when John sighed for the eleventh time since the news started (and not related to the content), Sherlock's glance, his stare, caught his attention.

"I guess I'll turn in, too."

"You could ..." Sherlock began, then frowned as he seemed to be weighing his words very carefully. "You don't have to."

"Look, I'm too old for an all-nighter, and the couch is ..."

"No, not that. Don't go ... up." Although his voice was quiet, serious, the message was clear. "You could just ... we could ..." The fact that he didn't complete either sentence was telling, revealing, and atypical. Breathy, he nearly rolled his eyes at his own discomfort as he looked intently at John.

Staring back, John could see the earnest appeal in Sherlock's eyes, the solemnity of what he was hinting at. His own mouth went dry - just a little. "What?" Sherlock gave the distinct impression he was about to complain about John's idiocy. "Really?"

"You heard me," Sherlock said, not quite a whisper.

"I ... uh ... are you sure?"

The dim light in the room, the faint glow from the telly was too little to see if there was the expected flush about his cheekbones or his neck. But it certainly seemed the case, and Sherlock cleared his throat again. "Of course." 

"I didn't think you ..."

"Well, of course you didn't. You're an idiot, and --" Nerves forced hastily spoken, unkind though somewhat expected words out of his mouth, but he realised almost immediately and stopped. "I mean, I thought this was where we've been heading. I'm sorry if I've --"

'NO, no, you're ... I just didn't expect --"

"For sleep, John. Or ... We don't have to ... I mean, I don't expect ... Just for sleep, yeah?" The conversation had gone off the rails, and awkwardly, Sherlock stood up. "I've got things to do here, though, so don't wait for me." Blustering, he moved to where there was enough of a stack of papers he could distract himself, anything to take the attention off what neither of them was saying. "I'll probably just crash out here later, so ..."

A deep breath, a slow exhale, and John felt a bit more in control. Rising, he moved to take Sherlock's trembling hands from where they were sorting haphazardly through old mail, a few notes, a random magazine, finding whatever they could as he desperately tried to keep busy. "Stop for a mo. I'm sorry, and we're okay. Yes, I would love to join you. It does make sense, to give Rosie some space."

Sherlock raised tentative eyes to John's.

In the awkward pause, John realised that Sherlock's offer was first of all not going to be restated. And it would be up to John to settle things. "I'd like that, yes. The both of us, just so we're clear. For sleeping ... or, well, ..." His derailed speech fizzled off, and Sherlock didn't maintain eye contact. "Or not, either way. So yes, thank you." Sherlock wasn't resisting, exactly, but he continued to stare at the floor. "Don't be too long, okay?" 

Pale eyes held blue eyes, seeking assurance that John meant truly that they were okay. A moment later, comforted, settled, Sherlock smiled a little, then nodded. "I won't be long."

Nervous himself, John stripped to pants and his tee shirt and crawled into the far side of the bed. He tossed for a bit, thinking to himself that he would never fall asleep. But he rolled over, the scent of the pillow and the knowledge of where he was, comforted him and he tucked into a warm lie position. His mind, though, rolled through various scenarios, wondering if he'd misunderstood what Sherlock was asking, if he should have taken Sherlock's hand and urged him to join. It was a pleasant concept, the two of them getting into bed together. Intimate, familiar. And he was thinking, perhaps, if he was still awake in another minute, he'd just get up. He'd take Sherlock's hand, he'd ...

It was still mostly dark when he awakened, rolled over, and found his nose almost buried in a head of luscious curls. For a moment, he just listened to Sherlock's deep, even breathing, chest rising and falling in the autonomic, relaxed rhythm of sleep. That he'd fallen asleep at all, that he'd slept through Sherlock joining him (pity!), was quite surprising. Upstairs, overhead, all seemed quiet. John wondered if Rosie would have noticed by now that he hadn't come up. She usually managed to sleep very soundly, didn't stir when he would previously come to bed, and usually didn't do much other than pull the covers over her head when he stepped out early in the mornings. 

Speaking of, early morning, he exhaled gently so as not to disturb the curls in his line of vision. It was ... surprising (that he'd slept), and nice for the company. He considered that if he fell back to sleep at all, certainly his internal clock would awaken before Rosie, give him plenty of time to avoid the uncomfortable moment - until he had a chance to talk to her first, explain things. He suspected, early in the morning, middle of the night, that he wouldn't really fall back to sleep, either, but the gentle lull, the faint sound of breathing and the comfortable, breathable warmth of Sherlock's Egyptian sheets worked their magic. His breathing evened out and his mind settled.

++

John pondered two phrases when he did awaken:

No good deed goes unpunished, and

The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

Because the other side of the bed was empty, but still warm, and through the closed door, he could indeed hear two voices in the sitting room. Calm voices, but none-the-less ...

A quick trip to the loo, brushing his hair and teeth as he began to mourn the loss of his sanity - because, really, what had he been thinking.

In actuality, he needn't have worried. The duo awaiting him, forewarned of course that he was awake, simply smiled as he entered the room. Rosie was her usual tousled self, pyjamas and robe, bare feet. She usually awakened slowly, and as such, as was the case in front of him, she was a little bleary. Sherlock, complete with dressing gown, slippers, his usual silk sleepwear, was his usual "instant on" self:  bright-eyed, eyes sharp, wide awake. Both of them, calm enough, blinked back at him.

Might as well not avoid the elephant ... and he mentally banned himself from any further sayings and phrases for the remainder of the day as he forced himself to talk. "Morning," he breathed, voice far raspier than he wished upon hearing it. "Things okay?"

"Just explained to your daughter," and this was said with a faint emphasis, a slight edge, "that you decided not to bother her last night, wanted to let her rest uninterrupted."

"Oka-a-a-ay, yes," John spoke slowly into the void, when a few seconds passed and grew awkward. Rosie didn't seem especially chatty, or in the mood for chatter, so John opted to move forward. "How are you this morning sweetheart?"

"Meh," she answered. Her eyes flicked to what John was wearing, then at him, "You've not done that before," she observed, tone and cadence slow. Either she was still processing slowly and unable to be distracted - or she was a little rattled by it.

"Just after the day you had yesterday," John began, his throat still a bit on the rough side, "we thought it might help you rest a little more. I didn't want to disturb you." Though he was still looking at Rosie, he felt Sherlock's eyes on him, so he did what he was extremely good at: deflecting. "I'm sorry you were upset yesterday. I know it's been ... a lot to process." There was a planned pause, and when she didn't exactly answer, he continued. "I was hoping you could help me make a few calls later today, this morning. See about getting someone out here just to say hello, make sure you like them. Give it a try."

"The therapist," Rosie stated. "I don't want to do it at all."

"I understand."

A stand-off, then, Rosie digging in her heels and John trying to wait her out.

Sherlock handed John his mug then, tea, steaming, string and tab over the side. He interjected, "I'll pick someone. I'm far more capable, and less emotional, than either of you. Fairly certain the both of you will pick an idiot for all the wrong reasons."

Both Watsons in the room, then, as Sherlock predicted, gave him a small but quite genuine smile. "Oh no you won't," John fussed back. "Rosie and I will do the choosing." With a raised brow of conspiracy, John caught and held Rosie's glance until she sighed, rolled her eyes, and turned away.

The list eventually was narrowed down to a few, and thankfully their first choice was available after only a few days, and willing to come to the flat.

++

"She's here."

The reactions were rather predictable, with Rosie, again, rolling her eyes and Sherlock hissing the word 'obviously', though - thankfully - under his breath.

Introductions went well, smoothly, and Rosie was guarded but less annoyed than she could have been (less annoyed than Sherlock already was, though he was hiding it fairly well). They chatted for a few moments, then, as John had been warned, she said very politely, very warmly, "So I think Rosie and I are going to visit a little, the two of us. Do you mind stepping out for a few minutes?" She faced Rosie then, across from her there in the sitting room. "That all right with you, Rosie?" Her frown appeared just briefly, but then she turned to look at John, who nodded reassuringly, so Rosie gave a half-shrug and a nod of her own. "I'll call you if we need to, but give us ... oh, maybe twenty minutes or so?"

"Fine," John said to her, grabbing their jackets. Moments later, they were kerbside, sort of blinking at each other, feeling that they had been fairly firmly - with permission ahead of time - evicted from their flat. She had explained why, that Rosie was unlikely to open up with them there, that she would be more anxious knowing they were there, were listening, or worse, judging. John had wholeheartedly agreed, that it would be awkward, and he didn't want to be a reason the session stalled. But now that he, that they were away from her, it seemed vaguely uncomfortable.

Without needing to make concrete plans, they fell into step, a slow walk down Baker Street. Which continued to a coffee shop, a purchase for each. And then with a stroll to Regent's. Casually, John found a seat on a park bench; Sherlock, a lumbering exploration along the path, looking at scenery but seeing little. They talked little, doom-scrolled, Sherlock pacing a little now and then, passing the time.

Thirteen draggy minutes elapsed, John finally binned his empty coffee cup. And Sherlock grew bored of the asphalt path, sliding into the other end of the bench.

"It's good that she's there, right? And that we left them alone?" John, frowning, breathed the question. "I mean, she did ask me, but this feels ..."

Sherlock interrupted John's hesitant concern. "Of course. Mycroft said that --"

"I still can't believe you felt the need to have your brother investigate her."

"He probably would have done it anyway. But apparently she's good. With especially favourable results amongst teens." Sherlock's expression was a little troubled, thoughtful, looking across the park. "Why anyone would enjoy working with teenaged people is beyond my comprehension anyway. They're horrid little --"

"Stop. Just --" John hesitated, glancing at Sherlock and finding him somewhat smiling back. "You're full of shit, aren't you?"

"Why, Dr. Watson, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. First time in London?" he hesitated, waiting for John to feel completely submerged in his sarcasm. "Why you keep acting surprised at this point is also beyond my comprehension." Confidently, Sherlock stretched out an arm, patting John's thigh and then leaving his hand there. "She's fine. Yes, I'm trying to distract you. Be glad we're in a public place and that I'm respecting societal laws and boundaries for public displays of affection." His words briefly shocked John into silence again. "You know, since we're sharing a bed now."

Sherlock's words, confident and intended to rile John up, did exactly that. While it was true they'd shared a bed these last few nights, that was all. And it continued to surprise John that he was able to sleep at all. Apparently, though, he enjoyed the company ...

Sherlock's words interrupted his musings. "And your daughter is quite well aware, despite your attempts to distract her."

"Hmm. I was hoping she wasn't paying us much attention."

"Oh no, she gave me quite the raised brow when she figured out where you were this morning." 

There was a breathed out moan that didn't quite hide John's words, oh dear lord.

"Shall I elaborate?" Sherlock was sharp, on point, and thriving on John's reaction. Especially that John was trying to reign in said reaction.

"Oh god please don't."

"She was surprised, but not upset, by the way." Sherlock's position on the bench was relaxed, ankles crossed, and his intensity at making John squirm was apparent, given his smile. "You need something else to get your mind off Rosie? I could probably speak your darkest, wildest fantasies out loud, and ..."

"Oh god stop talking." For a moment, John wondered at his life, questioning his choices, his timing of doing really anything beyond survival while his daughter was recovering from a serious injury. There was a queasiness churning, an unsettled overall sensation being out of the flat, away from Rosie. "Really, Sherlock, let's go back."

"It hasn't been twenty minutes yet."

"Wanker."

"Why? I'm right."

Briefly, John thought about his need to relieve his frustration. He didn't want to throw a punch, of course. But given the way Sherlock seemed to be pro-actively, and with (somewhat) good reason, he was pushing John's buttons. He needed, somehow, to push back. Then another idea struck him, and impulsively he leaned in, taking Sherlock's face, his jaw, between his hands. Pulling ever so slightly, guiding, he brought them close, pressing firm lips on Sherlock's, their heads angling, their breath catching. The kiss was warm, confident, and a coiling, escalating expression. He let his mouth move, opening a little before pulling back, and breathed, "Thank you. For all of this."

"For annoying you?"

"Yes, that too." Chuckling, John glanced around, then back to see Sherlock's expression, his focus. "I enjoyed that."

"I dare say, we would probably enjoy more than that. And we could."

"True," he whispered, then smiled at their proximity. "I never expected this, you know."

"Me neither," came the answer. They eased back, resting against the bench, closer than they were before. "Especially for all the protesting you've done."

Amid the chuckles, John insisted, then, "I'll say it again: I'm not gay," his words hung, suspended with an unfinished ending. He waited a moment before completing it, "Although perhaps a bit bisexual." Sharing smiles yet again, Sherlock knew John had more to say. Of course he did. "And," John began, curiosity loosening his words, "you're okay with it, right?"

"A bit," echoing John's phrase, he chuckled then pinned his gaze deeply into John's eyes. "Do you think so little of yourself, or of me, that either of us would be inclined to do anything without good reason? Or motive?"

The chuckle was immediate. "You? Absolutely. Well, you might have a good reason for doing something, but it might all be contrived." Sitting up a little straighter, he spoke more boldly. "I'm interested. Have been for ... well, for a long time, being honest. I'm not too sure about you, though. Are you seriously, honestly and truly interested, or are you just playing?"

"Oh, have no fear," Sherlock said, voice deep and open and genuine. "I can assure you that this? This ... relationship ... is something I've been wanting for a very long time. In fact, while I do regret many things over the course of these last years, what I possibly regret most is the whole Angelo's, flattered by your interest and married to my work conversation." Taking a deep breath, he looked away, calmly, off into the distance but not especially focused. "Indeed, it could have, indeed would have changed absolutely everything, had I but spoken the truth to you that night."

The implications of that hovered for a moment, John wondering about the fall, about Moriarty, about Mary. And then about Rosie. "Things might have been quite different. Hard to imagine any other way, though. Hard to imagine not having Rosie."

"Oh god, perish that thought. She's an amazing child, John. And between the two of us, and some outside help on rare occasions, hopefully she is on the mend. If I can keep you from smothering her, that is." There was a grin, an impish smile, another intentional statement to tease, provoke.

John rose to that level, and parried back, "Provided I can mitigate your influence, you know, the parental anarchy you unleash."

"I absolutely do not advocate for parental anarchy." He leaned a little closer to continue. "If I advocate for anything, it's against idiocy. For critical thinking. Logic. Common sense. Using your brain."

"Common sense? Since when." John could have listed a multitude of issues, of things in which Sherlock indeed had very little if any common sense. Brilliant? yes. Genius, of course. "You're a walking billboard for rebellion."

The shrug that followed John's statement was more of another 'obviously' than a denial. Sherlock paused a moment, and said, "You should just move your things out of the upstairs, entirely."

"What? How do we go from parenting Rosie to --?"

"Common sense, John. Do keep up."

"But ..." Without thought, John's protests sounded. Though they've shared the bedroom, this was the first chance they've had to discuss it. There had been, since coming home from the hospital, an occasional touch, nothing too intimate. Barely any kissing even, not for a while, though John found himself thinking about it more and more. "We haven't ... I don't know if you ..."

"I've been trying to give you space." The arch of his brow, he way he stared, the body language left to question as to what either of them was talking about. "But if you're ready, I am too. Just say the word, and we'll figure it out from there, okay?" Without waiting, Sherlock glanced at his mobile for the time. "Time's up, we're clear to return," he said, not even bothering to wait for John as he sprang up, ready to return home.

John sat on the bench a moment longer, then launched himself to his feet. Catching up to Sherlock in only a few strides, he took Sherlock's elbow before speaking. "Oh, I'm ready too, just so you know." He slowed up, holding Sherlock back as well, and poured his sincerity, his passion, his fondness into a kiss that lasted long seconds and ended with a passer-by smirking 'get a room' under their breath.

++

The therapist and Rosie were at the kitchen table by the time they entered the room. Rosie seemed no worse for wear. In fact, her eyes were bright and her energy level seemed high.

John wasn't entirely sure how to begin, so he started benignly. "I hope you had a nice visit."

"Mostly," Rosie murmured. "Turns out, I have some ..." Her frown deepened. "I can't ..."

The therapist, smiling kindly, waited for Rosie to finish if she could, but when she huffed in defeat, glancing over at her, she answered for her. "There are some slower pathways, some missing connections. It's technically an aphasia, anomic aphasia to be clear, but given this injury is what, barely a couple of weeks old, I think it's too soon to really say for sure. Improvement is so variable in timing and thoroughness. But she's on a good arc, and I would expect it to continue." 

Sherlock, laser focused as usual, found the first question. "Anomic aphasia? How often have you personally treated it in someone Rosie's age?"

"I did bring my CV, at your brother's behest," she said, engagingly, nodding at the briefcase near the table. "But I can tell you the variables are unlimited, so there's no exact algorithm for any of this. That said, no one is going to have a concrete treatment plan. And there are no guarantees. But my methods, my flexibility, I think you, and more importantly Rosie, will find helpful." She was smiling, and John could tell that she'd been obviously well-prepared. Proactively, she pulled out a single, neatly handwritten page. "So, this is absolutely not homework. In fact, I don't recommend it. But these strategies can help all of you, while Rosie heals and things get back to normal, to minimise frustration and not dwell so much on the problem. Rosie and I have already talked about these, and I told her I'd review it with you. I also have results of our standardised assessment, the short form, to review. Sound okay?"

John answered first, "Of course, that would be fantastic."

"And Rosie, you certainly don't have to sit through all this again, unless you want to, okay?" She smiled as Rosie groaned, smiling just a little, and began to stand up. "Here's that appointment card, in case you want to keep it somewhere obvious, for our next visit." Rosie took the card, tucked it on the refrigerator, then slowly and quietly headed upstairs.

++

"Reassuring, yeah?" John said the moment the therapist was outside. Sherlock leveled a look at him, brow raised, in return. It was not necessarily one of agreement. An eye narrowed, waiting for John to continue. "My meaningful conclusion to this is that we let things happen organically. Take it as it comes. She's ... barely home, and improving."

Disapproval radiated off Sherlock in waves, but he kept quiet for the moment. So John stepped forward to explain.

"I think, because of ... well, who we are, and that we're in the middle of this, we do - we might - forget how really catastrophic, how remarkable this whole experience was. The accident. Surgery, all the rest of it." John spoke, watching Sherlock's face, watching him turn away, his lips thinning out, biting his tongue. With a small inhale, preparing himself, he touched Sherlock on the arm as he asked, "Go ahead, you might as well say it. I can tell you're --"

"I don't understand how you can be okay with this. With all of it. Biding our time, waiting complacently, with her missing school. Getting behind. Missing her friends."

John doesn't disagree with his points, knowing that Rosie loved -- well, if not the schoolwork, the process, the experience, the social aspects. The normal routine of how things used to be "We can work with that. Compensate, carefully. You heard her, that early stress can draw out and prolong the consequences."

"You're gambling with her ... her very life."

"No, I disagree with that. The gamble already happened, the accident. She beat that. I can't imagine ..." His words trailed off as he indeed, began to imagine for a moment, a glimpse at what could have happened. "We could have ..." John decided it wasn't worth arguing any longer, not worth the limited emotional energy he had left, and, ignoring Sherlock and leaving him at the table, he disappeared into the kitchen. Although he didn't necessarily want another hot beverage, it seemed an appropriate diversion.

Kettle, mug, tea, sugar, spoon ...

He didn't plan for Sherlock's arms wrapping around him from behind, having snuck up on silent feet.

"She'll be okay?" he asked, with a very revealing tremble in his voice. "John, right? She'll be okay?" Despite the layers of clothing and their not seeing eye to eye exactly, the nearness, the closeness, the warmth of another person - of Sherlock - was comforting on many levels, and for a moment, John relaxed back against him. "This is ..."

Leaving the kettle alone, John turned to draw him close, finding he needed as much support as he was trying to give in return, both taking from and giving to Sherlock. "Yes. I trust what they're telling us. Of course she will, she's young, and healing. It just takes --"

"Don't say it. I don't want to hear it."

"Time!" John tried to chuckle, tried to push back, to make eye contact with Sherlock and reassure him that way. There was considerable resistance. "No, really. I won't say it again. Today, anyway," he chuckled, unable to resist the opening. "But you know it's true. It's only been a couple of weeks, really. Rushing is only going to make things worse." Stepping back, he paused for a bit before telling him, "Let's give her a few minutes, and then I think I'll go make sure she's all right. Today had to be exhausting."

"Find out what she wants for supper while you're there."

John hesitated, sensing that the unusual request had some sort of agenda behind it. "Can do," he replied quietly, "and then you can go shopping for the ingredients. And then prepare it."

There was a snort from the original speaker of the request, and as John waited quietly, Sherlock turned back to his screens in front of him. "Take away it is."

When John did head up to check on Rosie, he found her awake, lying quietly, music playing softly through her speakers. The rest of the room was peaceful, still. "Just checking up on you, love," John said to her, carefully as he could. When she didn't respond too quickly, he added, "You doing okay?"

"Guess so."

"Not the news you were hoping for." Her snort was plenty of responsive, a typical teenagers retort regarding parental stupidity. He decided to pull at a loose thread gently, see what it unwound. "Me neither."

At that, Rosie froze, staring at him, a little surprised at - well, if not the answer, at his honesty. "Oh?"

"I really just want you to feel better, or just to feel like yourself again. To be happy. To be a normal kid." Rosie glared at that, and John amended, "Teenager?" One side of her nose tweaked in continuing mild disapproval. "Young woman?" At that, she rolled her eyes. "Choose whatever you'd like. You know I would fix this if I could. Trade places with you so you wouldn't have to deal with this. But here we are." Rosie's breath was a hiccup of emotion, though she remained quiet. "It doesn't necessarily help to hear that it takes time, that you're young, that you're expected to make a full recovery, does it?" This was followed, as expected, by two small shakes of Rosie's head. "I do believe it, though. And you are absolutely healing. The middle of the storm is hard."

"This will never ..." Rosie began, and was either word-searching or just overwhelmed, understandably, with her situation. "I just want ..." Her gaze went to the floor, but John could see it anyway, the tears forming under her eyelashes. "I feel like it's worse now than ..."

John didn't disagree that, as she was speaking more, that the words were escaping her what felt like a little more often. "I know you don't want to hear this either, but the swelling continues for a few days before it gets better. This is all somewhat expected, or so your doc says." The tears forming grew bigger and eventually trickled down her face, and John carefully tugged at her hand, gathering her up against him. "We're hearing it more because you're talking a lot more, definitely than in the hospital but even in the week or so you've been home. You're on the mend, I promise you."

Though she didn't reply to that, he felt her head nod very slightly against him. Rubbing his hand carefully along her shoulders, her hair, he could sense the moment she relaxed a little bit against him.

When Sherlock came up a few minutes later to check on them, they were a complicated tangle of people - a full grown male kneeling against the edge of Rosie's bed, arms wrapped around the fragile girl. Her eyes were dry, by this point, but the heaviness in her expression, the few cast-off tissues nearby and the awkward way John had taken her into his arms, comforting.

"I would join you on the floor, but I do think, Rosie, that your papa is going to need help getting up eventually. So there's that." His voice was steady, amused, with just a hint of teasing. Sherlock watched John's hand stroke slowly over his daughter's long hair, and a moment later, Rosie angled her head so she could see Sherlock's face too. "But, if you both have a minute, I do have a suggestion. Something of course very self-serving for me, but Rosie I think you might also find it to your benefit."

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Perhaps it's time for a bedroom make-over. A face-lift of sorts. Once we move your father permanently downstairs, you'll have quite a bit more room here."

"It would be nice, having something to ...?" Her voice trailed off, and she gestured with a little fatigue at John for help.

"Look forward to?"

"Yes. That."

"You're sure. You're okay with ... all of that?" John asked quietly. "Because there's no rush or anything."

"No, you're down there anyway." Her eyes closed as she tipped her head back first, then, still tired and unhappy with her position, she grabbed at a bed pillow and tucked onto the floor. "You know he snores, right?"

Both responses occurred simultaneously: John's "I do not" and Sherlock's, "Of course I do."

"Yes a new room would be ..." Rosie finished the end of her sentence with a disappointed snort instead of the word she couldn't find. "But no returns. You can't return him. All sales are final."

++

Rosie closed the door most of the way, powered on the purple speakers, and sat cross-legged on the floor near Sylvia. Her splint, still wrapped in an elastic wrap, was getting less awkward to use, to manoeuver around, and thankfully, her other hand had already healed up fairly well and no longer needed a bulky dressing. There were a few, well-placed plasters over the larger scabs, just to protect them.

"And you don't remember any of that?"

Rosie gave an eye-roll followed by an incredulous shrug. "Nothing. Maybe, maybe, the trip home in one of Uncle Mycroft's cars. And vaguely, coming up the steps and everything was very far away. Even though I was standing in the room."

"That's crazy. And you had something ... like, inside your head?"

"Well, there was a blood clot or something at first, they took that out. But yes, something, in the hospital I did."

"Eww."

"A monitor. Or a drain. Or maybe it was both, I don't know."

Sylvia was staring at Rosie's head as Rosie, scowling, picked up some strands of hair, letting them show the difference in length, from where it had been cut short. "Is there a hole there, still?"

At her friend's shudder, Rosie grew more engaged. "There was. I could feel the edges of it, and even where they ... I don't know, cut through the bone. But that's all closed over. Pa says bone grows pretty fast, so it sealed up pretty quick already. There's a little tiny bump, if you want to feel it?"

"No. Yes. No. Ewww, again." They chuckled, then Sylvia's hand reached, pulled away, reached again, until Rosie, nearly cackling, grabbed it and placed a fingertip right over the spot. 

"Right there, feel it?"

"Ew. Yes. No." But then, Sylvia's curiosity grew, and she paused, moving her fingers just slightly as she tilted her head, sort of smiled. "Right there, that?" When Rosie nodded, both of them giggled again. "Does it hurt?"

"Not at all. And I can't remember it really hurting there at all. I do remember having a weird headache, like a nagging dull one for a long time. It's just a little numb, a little off, now."

It had been not even two weeks since coming home, and she was improving. Still not cleared to return to school yet. Still uncomfortable around crowds. They'd managed to get her school work, in packages, from her teachers. However, John was rationing it out slowly, very slowly, and in very tiny periods of time, and between them all, she was managing a very small amount of it, what she could tolerate. The surgeon had recommended, and they were following it best they could, to minimise excursions for now, to limit stimulation, to lay low at home for a little while yet, letting things heal, waiting for the swelling to go down. This visit, with one of her best friends, had been, in Rosie's mind, long overdue.

"That sounds awful. All of it."

With a casual shrug again, Rosie frowned a little, retrospectively. "I don't remember a lot of it, I guess. I don't remember the accident. Not even a little bit. Do you?"

"Not really. Happened really fast, bang!, and then there were people helping. Or trying to."

"It was pretty terrible, from what I've heard, for my dad, getting the phone call. And Sherlock." There was a pile of headbands between them, assorted colours, and idly, Rosie picked up that first one she'd worn. Though they were all just accessories, she felt something of a connection, a tiny emotional attachment to that specific one. "I did get my own room here, though." Sylvia nodded, grinned, seeing the changes in the bedroom. Previously, they'd really never been able to hang out there, always at Sylvia's or downstairs, even Speedy's. There'd been something of a clean out, but they were planning a redecoration project, new furniture, updated bedding and window treatments. A new poster already hung on the wall, a gift from John and Sherlock, framed, beautiful, intricate. Random to the unobservant eye, for Rosie it was wonderful and amazing, simply yet cleverly incorporating music and science, colour and pattern. It was benign enough, not ostentatious, but Rosie loved everything about it, from the choice to the gilt frame to the sneaky addition Sherlock had added to it - a hand-drawn rose carefully tucked into a corner, his initials tiny next to it, as if she'd forget. "Now we can sleep over at either house."

From downstairs the door opened, closed, a few bumps and noises, furniture moving perhaps, muted voices. The door to the flat opening and shutting a few times. For the most part, Rosie didn't mind in the least, and Sylvia - forewarned - promptly, as requested by Rosie's dad, distracted her with a newly released music number, by that American singer Taylor Swift. Sylvia worked hard at keeping her face neutral, to make sure Rosie didn't notice how much she was actually paying attention to the noise. She did not, however, need to mask her smile when she finally heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

"What?" Rosie asked, frowning just a little with concern. With feeling she was missing something. Sylvia's expression, and the arrival of someone ...

Which, by design and set up and a bit of distraction, she indeed was missing something.

The door, open slightly, pushed open wider, and John stood, waiting. "Something for you downstairs, Rosie."

"What is it." Her voice was low and very nearly threatening.

"It's good," Sylvia interjected, pushing up to her feet, letting a broad smile prove her point. "Come see."

"Papa?" Rosie asked, low and uncertain, not moving at all. She suddenly looked very young and timid.

Heart nearly full, John calmly crossed to her, arms open as he drew her into his arms. "It's okay, something that will make you happy, all right?" He pulled back to look his daughter square in the face, touching her carefully about the jaw to make sure she was paying attention. "Trust me."

Her sigh was telling, that yes she did trust him and that yes, she was still uncomfortable. He wondered perhaps if a surprise, even a mild one like this was a good idea. It did thoroughly confirm that she wasn't ready for classes yet, for the normal schedule and busyness of a teen's life. "Okay," she affirmed, her smile a little shaky, but she tucked her hand in his and let him lead her from her bedroom.

Downstairs, Sherlock was chatting with a stranger, a young woman wearing an apron, and both of them turned to watch Rosie enter the room. The woman's face lit up in a broad, friendly smile.

"You must be Rosie," she said quietly yet full of controlled energy at the same time. "I've heard so much about you." She hesitated, eyes on the speaker. "I'm Charlotte."

"Hi," Rosie answered, and only then did she glance around the room. The noise from earlier hadn't really registered too much, but at seeing the changes, the additions, putting it together with the new person, she nodded, eyes wide as she turned to take it all in.

The couch had been pulled aside, the coffee table removed entirely to make space for an adjustable chair with arms and a footrest. Next to it, a portable basin on a stand, a large container tub of water nearby. And in front of that was the mirror from Sherlock's bedroom, the cheval, standing just so. Charlotte waited until Rosie'd taken it all in, then told her, "I hear you might be interested in a bit of a trim. And a wash, if you think it'd feel okay."

Rather than the excitement they'd all been expecting, without warning Rosie burst into tears. John was still holding her hand, or at least he was until she pulled free to cover her face. He didn't let her get too far away, or too emotional. "Oh, hey," he crooned, wrapping his arms around her gently, tucking her head up against him. "We don't have to. You don't have to. I'm so sorry, you said your hair ... we just thought you'd like a trim. Or a style. Or ..."

"No, no, I want it. It's just ... It startled me, and I was ... scared, and then ..."

Behind Rosie, John saw Sylvia fidgeting uncomfortably, clearly at a loss for what to do or where to get out of the way. With a soft chuckle, he beckoned her over as he continued to comfort Rosie. "So it's okay, you can take your time. But Sylvia's here and we were thinking a ... a little Rosie triangle would help," and John drew her into very close proximity. "And Charlotte can wash your hair for you, like in a salon, and if you decide you want a style or ..."

Instead of a potentially upset answer, she nodded, a little sniffle, and John let her back away when she seemed ready.

"Sorry for ..." she gestured with a hint of frustration at herself. "I didn't expect that. Yes please."

Smiling, John touched her chin, a good-natured connection. "Learned something today. No surprises for Rosie, not for a little while anyway." Stepping away just a little further, he continued to hold her hands in his bigger ones, "You don't have to, you know. We'll reschedule --"

To which Rosie responded, a little more in character, back to a glimpse of her usual sass, "Oh no. This is ... yes please." She puffed out a deliberate, steadying breath then looked at Charlotte with a more confident smile, "So yes to the wash, gently though, my scalp is ..." When she couldn't find the word, she just pushed past it. "I've been thinking, maybe some ..." but when the word escaped her again, she gestured at random intervals in upward movements.

"Layers?" Charlotte whispered quietly. 

"Yes, layers. In the front anyway?"

"I brought some pictures for you to look at," Charlotte told her, indicating a small pile off to the side, "if you want. The whole treatment, the real deal, for both of you." For a moment, Rosie stared. Charlotte smiled again, a little connivingly, "Maybe we can add nails if you want. Toenails, too." After a few moments, Rosie smiled, a gradually growing smile that was true and genuine. And then, warmly, as if she was just coming back to the present moment, she nodded. "Oh yes, I'm ... Yes please."

Moments later, Charlotte had helped settle her into the waiting, portable salon chair and for a moment, they looked at each other in the mirror for a little, then Charlotte smiled so kindly. Handing Rosie the small album of photo ideas, she offered, "Check these out, but I don't think you'll need them much. Some layers, here and here?" Charlotte indicated Rosie's fringe, and along her shoulders. "We can sculpt it a little here, and I'm not going to lie, it's still going to look a little short for a week or two. But as it grows in, I think you'll really love it!"

Rosie handed the book back, and John knew that focusing on print, or screens, was still somewhat likely to induce a headache. "Let's try it."

"Yes ma'am," Charlotte whispered, ready to set to work. "But first, a nice shampoo!"

++

The day would have been no different than any regular day for most people; for Rosie, it was exhausting, just given the activity, the emotional upheaval, having company - finally. Sylvia didn't stay too long, and once everything was completed and the flat was just them again, Rosie collapsed, sprawled with long legs and awkward limbs and a fatigued smile into the couch, where she lay looking intermittently between her fingernails - pink glitter - and her toenails - iridescent blue/green. Now and again, she would touch at her hair, the long layers, the trim overall, and thankfully it was with less displeasure than it had been.

"You're all right?" John asked, pleased at her enjoyment, at her admiration of her new polish.

"Yes. Except for the ... crying jag."

"I know. Surprised the lot of us, you did." John sat down next to her, holding her hand and also grinning at the sparkly colour. "But some of these things feel very new, and probably a little scary for you. It's hard on your brain, the ... well, the injury. And healing takes a lot of work, and energy."

For a moment, Rosie was quiet, still, clearly thinking. "I guess I'm glad we're doing remote schoolwork. I'd hate for that to happen at school." The confession was a hard one for her, and both John and Sherlock could tell how much she meant it.

"Good point, I suppose." Sherlock raised a brow, clearly ready to deliver something else snarky. "If you'd like, I can certainly homeschool you, we can finish this year of secondary for you in about a month, give or take --"

"No. No. No," Rosie responded immediately. "This year only, and then I can go back?" she asked.

"Looks that way," John told her, cautiously. They'd had some evaluations, and she was definitely catching up. Her focus and stamina were not quite baseline, but they were making progress all around.

"Thanks for all this," Rosie spoke, then, obviously more on her mind. "I would never have thought it possible," she told him. "Bringing all that here."

"Me neither," John admitted. "Sherlock's idea."

"I'm known for all kinds of good ideas," he declared.

Four full seconds went by before John snickered and then Rosie joined in.

++

The sitting room, all the usual accoutrements, was comfortable, occupied, and peaceful for the moment. John's book, two cooling cups of tea, music playing softly in the background. Sherlock was at the table, his phone in hand along with John's laptop just out of principle, all in use.

The last of Rosie's new furniture had been delivered and was all set in place. Rosie and Sylvia had helped get everything into place, and had a sleepover last night already. Currently, they were a few blocks away with some Sylvia's parents and her older sibling, celebrating the end of the school year. Rosie had finished mostly at home, but joined the rest of her class for the final two weeks, only needing a few minor adjustments and accommodations to the schedule, her requirements, the curriculum, and tutoring. Thankfully, she had managed to complete the end of year levels with the rest of her class, no special considerations, and her grades were solid, perhaps not quite what they'd been previously, but close. They were all heading to a movie later, then to Sylvia's, and would be back sometime tomorrow morning.

"This is odd, right? An evening at home without Rosie. Just us," John tested the waters to see if Sherlock was paying attention.

Of course he was, and his fingers halted mid-word, whatever he'd been typing put on hold, and he stared back, expression carefully neutral. "Yes. It's a great evening to catch up on this project. I didn't realise how little I've been able to get to."

John forced himself not to sigh, not to be disappointed. "Oh, yes, well. That's good then." Resignedly, he turned to his mobile again, scrolling briefly, until he heard a chuckle and sharply looked across the room to where Sherlock was watching him. "What?"

"You took that? That I'd prefer working, catching up, glued to the screens and the microscope later, to an actual evening, a childless evening, with you?" His tirade turned personal. "You need to stop being so ... tolerant."

"You utter ... If I'm tolerant, it's because I'm grateful for what we have, and I'm okay with it. Rosie's okay, we're ... well, we're more than okay."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock shook his head in mock surrender, and rose. "Let's get changed. I have dinner reservations a little later, and then, if we time it right, Mycroft left us tickets to ... some show, at some theatre, at the will call window."

"Angelo's?"

"Of course."

"And then ... Moulin Rouge?" John was already on his feet, moving closer to Sherlock. "It's Moulin Rouge isn't it? I'm right, I know it. There was some random discussion, with ... Molly was helping you, wasn't she, pumping me for information." To be certain, John was definitely not irritated by this, as he connected the dots from an interaction with Molly a few days previously. "You utter bastard!" he teased.

"Oh stop your whinging. You're getting what you want, you should be happy." Sherlock teased back. "In fact, you should be eternally grateful." Blue eyes sparkled as Sherlock's phrase almost dared John to react.

Which he did. "That you're a conniving wretch with entitled connections and pushover friends who will manipulate your partner for information --" Feeling a bit uninhibited, by their plans and in an otherwise unoccupied flat, John abruptly stopped his tirade and kissed Sherlock full on the mouth. For a few blissful moments, the kiss deepened, a hand stealing into Sherlock's curls, Sherlock's fingers tugging at John's collar. "And for the record, I am eternally grateful."

Easing back as Sherlock got to his feet, their eyes met and held. So many things, John could have said, elaborating on so many pieces and parts of their shared histories, of Rosie's recent adventure, but it wasn't necessary. Their gaze was full of it, unspoken, and finally John sighed, pulling their lips together again, the specifics unnecessary.

"Come with me," John said then, tipping his head toward the hallway, where their shared bedroom awaited. "There's something else, I think we both want. And we have time before dinner, I suppose ...?"

"Yes." Sherlock needed no convincing, falling into step alongside John. "And then, after, I'll see if we can find you something suitable to wear."