Happy Birthday, Rosie
Aug. 27th, 2017 08:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: A short fic for Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Three (Summer 2017) - Day 1 - A Ros(i)e By Any Other Name (Fanworks focusing on Molly & Rosie's relationship) Seven memorable birthdays with Rosie Watson.
Rating: G
A/N - I made myself cry in the middle of Village Inn while I wrote this.
Happy Birthday, Rosie
On Rosie’s first birthday, Molly wept at the unfairness of it.
She woke up in the morning and tried not to feel down. There was a birthday party to attend, after all; and Rosie would need her Aunty Molly to be full of cheerful smiles and comforting words in a room full of less familiar faces and loud voices.
John had been a little overwhelmed with trying to plan a party for a one-year old. Sherlock had been no help at all.
(“She’s one. She won’t remember a cake and a bunch of grown-ups standing around in stupid party hats. Why even bother?”)
So it had fallen to Mrs Hudson and Molly to plan a small gathering, more for family and friends than for Rosie herself.
It had been fun at first, planning and giggling over pretty invitations and smash cakes. Picking a dress for the tiny girl, and a matching shirt for her Daddy.
That’s when it stopped being fun for Molly.
John had grumbled but agreed to wear a button down in the same lavender shade as his daughter’s frilly outfit. Molly found herself thinking “Mary should have a matching dress. Or perhaps a ribbon in her hair.” and that was all it took.
Still, Molly pushed through and hid her sadness. The only one who noticed kept his observations to himself, although she did feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze following her out the door when she left that evening.
She managed to keep it all inside until the cab ride home after the party.
And then the tears came because Mary Watson should have been there to see her daughter’s first birthday. Rosie Watson should have been able to feel her mother’s loving kisses and hugs every single day of her childhood. And someone had taken that away from them both.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
On Rosie’s second birthday, Molly laughed and giggled as the little girl toddled across the floor straight into Uncle Sherlock’s legs.
Rosie loved her Mowwy, but Sirlok was her favourite (second only to Daddy, of course).
Molly had read all of the child development books, and loaned most of them to Sherlock. As far as she was concerned, Rosie was far more advanced than the average two-year old. John, Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson agreed, but Molly was willing to allow that they might all be just a tiny bit biased.
The toddler had only been talking for a few months, but she was already identifying all sorts of things that a two-year old probably shouldn’t have been familiar with. John taught her everything a parent should teach their daughter. Molly routinely added the anatomical names for body parts whenever they played “Where is your nose? Where is your belly button?” types of games. Sherlock spent hours explaining the little observational clues that held him to his deductions (but only on the tamer cases, and absolutely nothing that involved a corpse). When would Molly wonder what Mrs Hudson was teaching the little girl, the older woman would only give her a secretive smile and say that there were certain skills that every woman should know. Molly suspected those skills had nothing to do with the stereotypical baking or brewing a proper cup of tea and more to do with setting up an off-shore banking account and picking out prime pieces of real-estate.
Rosie’s birthday party was smaller affair; just the Godparents, John, and a cake at Baker Street.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
On Rosie’s fifth birthday, Molly gasped.
Rosie had wanted a pony, and by golly that’s what Uncle Sherlock made sure she got.
Or as close as possible when one was a five-year old living in a basement flat in London.
Which meant Sherlock had somehow called in a favour (Via Mycroft, most likely; although it could have been Mrs Hudson.) and arranged for an entire day at a ranch owned by someone very rich and very important. A day of pony rides for Rosie and her best friend, fairy cakes and champagne (for the adults only), and fifteen minutes Molly being led around on an old mare on a lead (After two glasses of champagne and the promise that no one would film the misadventure. John lied, much to Molly’s annoyance.)
While John and Sherlock took out a pair of younger horses for an afternoon ride, Molly cuddled up on a blanket under a tree with the girls. Rosie put her head in Molly’s lap and both children took a nap Molly enjoyed being outside, far away from the city.
The only thing that made the day even better was Sherlock reappearing as the sun began to set and asking if Molly would like to take a walk with him.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
On Rosie’s tenth birthday, Molly agreed to host a sleepover for Rosie and five of her closest friends.
John had seemed rather relieved when she offered. Apparently, the thought of chaperoning half a dozen giggling ten-year olds was more intimidating that chasing down a suspected murder through the streets of London.
The coward.
There were experiments with make-up and hairstyles, ghost stories and a scary movie while huddled in a circle in the darkened sitting room, sleeping bags and sugary treats in the middle of the night.
The next morning, an exhausted Molly waved goodbye to the girls and their parents as each was picked up. The last to leave was the guest of honour, who rushed back at the last moment to give Molly a heartfelt “I love you, Aunt Molly” and a crushing hug.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
On Rosie’s sixteenth birthday, Molly fidgeted and worried along with John, Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson (although none of them would admit to worrying as they hovered about Baker Street) while Rosie spent the evening ‘hanging out’ with a few of her friends. Some of which were boys.
“It’s not a date,” she had been quick to reassure her dad. “Well, Michelle is dating Rashad, but the rest of us are just friends.”
Molly made a mental note to speak with John later about the fact that Rosie was sixteen and while her night out with friends might not have been a ‘date’, there was a very good chance that would change in the near future.
She also made a mental note to speak with Rosie about the very real possibility that anyone she dated would be vetted by an overprotective father, an uncle who worked for Scotland Yard, the British Government, and an uncle who knew seventeen different ways to ruin someone’s life with just a few pointed words.
Oddly, Sherlock had no cases to work on; almost as if he wanted to make sure he and John were available at a moment’s notice.
For her part, Molly had slipped Rosie a tenner and made her promise that if anything made her the least bit uncomfortable, she would find the nearest cab and call as soon as she had a chance. Regardless, Molly wanted a detailed recap of the entire evening, and she especially wanted to know if Jared was really as dreamy as Rosie had hoped.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
On Rosie’s eighteenth birthday, Molly stood next to her husband and John and Teresa (John’s second wife), and waved goodbye to her Goddaughter as she climbed into her boyfriend’s car.
The two couples regularly met for dinner and board games at least twice a month; a chance for the men to reminisce about their younger years, when leaping from rooftop to rooftop without a thought to their safety was a much more common occurrence. Sherlock still took plenty of cases, and still called on John for assistance on a regular basis, but now they occasionally brought Archie along when they thought they might need a bit of extra muscle or speed.
“She’ll be fine,” Teresa reassured her husband. “It’s just a few days.”
“You know how much she’s been looking forward to this. Simon’s a good boy. And Rosie has been camping plenty of times, she’ll know what to do if anything happens,” Molly took her turn at trying to offer reassurance. “Which it won’t, so I don’t know why I even mentioned it.”
“Oh for God’s sake, John. She’s eighteen. Everyone on the trip has been screened by Mycroft’s people. They’ll be staying at a well-known, popular camping park. There will be other people within shouting distance at all times. She’ll be fine,” Sherlock huffed.
“You’re right. You’re right. It’s not often we’ve got an empty house for four whole days.” John reached for Teresa’s hand and brought it up to his lips. “Let’s make the most of it, shall we?”
The Watsons headed into the kitchen to start dinner preparations, leaving Molly and Sherlock to look out at the empty street where Simon’s car had been. She leaned her head against Sherlock’s arm. “You arranged for the Park Warden to check in on them every night, right?”
“Mmmhmm. And I’ve got a pair of hikers who will set up camp next to them, equipped with a satellite phone and a first-rate med kit.”
Molly grinned and pressed a kiss against his cheek. “She’ll kill us if she finds out, you know.”
“We’ll blame it on Mycroft.”
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
On Rosie’s twenty-first birthday, Molly cried. Again.
Rosie had come home from university for the weekend, Simon in tow and a diamond ring on her finger.
“We’re planning to wait until we graduate to get married, so there’s ages before we need to start planning anything; but we wanted to tell you all as soon as possible.”
After several rounds of congratulations and a large lunch, Molly found herself in the small attic of the Watson house with Rosie and Teresa. The three women dug through dusty boxes and cobwebs, until Teresa found the case they were looking for.
They drug it into the circle of light from the bare overhead bulb and Rosie reverently opened the case to find the items that had been so lovingly packed away more than two decades before.
Rosie held her mother’s wedding dress to her chest, and Molly carefully arranged the veil over Rosie’s hair.
Teresa clasped her hands together and gave Rosie a watery smile. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
“Do you think Mum would mind?” Rosie asked with a waver in her voice.
“I think she’d be delighted, my love.” Molly sniffled and wiped her hand across her eyes.
Rating: G
A/N - I made myself cry in the middle of Village Inn while I wrote this.
Happy Birthday, Rosie
On Rosie’s first birthday, Molly wept at the unfairness of it.
She woke up in the morning and tried not to feel down. There was a birthday party to attend, after all; and Rosie would need her Aunty Molly to be full of cheerful smiles and comforting words in a room full of less familiar faces and loud voices.
John had been a little overwhelmed with trying to plan a party for a one-year old. Sherlock had been no help at all.
(“She’s one. She won’t remember a cake and a bunch of grown-ups standing around in stupid party hats. Why even bother?”)
So it had fallen to Mrs Hudson and Molly to plan a small gathering, more for family and friends than for Rosie herself.
It had been fun at first, planning and giggling over pretty invitations and smash cakes. Picking a dress for the tiny girl, and a matching shirt for her Daddy.
That’s when it stopped being fun for Molly.
John had grumbled but agreed to wear a button down in the same lavender shade as his daughter’s frilly outfit. Molly found herself thinking “Mary should have a matching dress. Or perhaps a ribbon in her hair.” and that was all it took.
Still, Molly pushed through and hid her sadness. The only one who noticed kept his observations to himself, although she did feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze following her out the door when she left that evening.
She managed to keep it all inside until the cab ride home after the party.
And then the tears came because Mary Watson should have been there to see her daughter’s first birthday. Rosie Watson should have been able to feel her mother’s loving kisses and hugs every single day of her childhood. And someone had taken that away from them both.
On Rosie’s second birthday, Molly laughed and giggled as the little girl toddled across the floor straight into Uncle Sherlock’s legs.
Rosie loved her Mowwy, but Sirlok was her favourite (second only to Daddy, of course).
Molly had read all of the child development books, and loaned most of them to Sherlock. As far as she was concerned, Rosie was far more advanced than the average two-year old. John, Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson agreed, but Molly was willing to allow that they might all be just a tiny bit biased.
The toddler had only been talking for a few months, but she was already identifying all sorts of things that a two-year old probably shouldn’t have been familiar with. John taught her everything a parent should teach their daughter. Molly routinely added the anatomical names for body parts whenever they played “Where is your nose? Where is your belly button?” types of games. Sherlock spent hours explaining the little observational clues that held him to his deductions (but only on the tamer cases, and absolutely nothing that involved a corpse). When would Molly wonder what Mrs Hudson was teaching the little girl, the older woman would only give her a secretive smile and say that there were certain skills that every woman should know. Molly suspected those skills had nothing to do with the stereotypical baking or brewing a proper cup of tea and more to do with setting up an off-shore banking account and picking out prime pieces of real-estate.
Rosie’s birthday party was smaller affair; just the Godparents, John, and a cake at Baker Street.
On Rosie’s fifth birthday, Molly gasped.
Rosie had wanted a pony, and by golly that’s what Uncle Sherlock made sure she got.
Or as close as possible when one was a five-year old living in a basement flat in London.
Which meant Sherlock had somehow called in a favour (Via Mycroft, most likely; although it could have been Mrs Hudson.) and arranged for an entire day at a ranch owned by someone very rich and very important. A day of pony rides for Rosie and her best friend, fairy cakes and champagne (for the adults only), and fifteen minutes Molly being led around on an old mare on a lead (After two glasses of champagne and the promise that no one would film the misadventure. John lied, much to Molly’s annoyance.)
While John and Sherlock took out a pair of younger horses for an afternoon ride, Molly cuddled up on a blanket under a tree with the girls. Rosie put her head in Molly’s lap and both children took a nap Molly enjoyed being outside, far away from the city.
The only thing that made the day even better was Sherlock reappearing as the sun began to set and asking if Molly would like to take a walk with him.
On Rosie’s tenth birthday, Molly agreed to host a sleepover for Rosie and five of her closest friends.
John had seemed rather relieved when she offered. Apparently, the thought of chaperoning half a dozen giggling ten-year olds was more intimidating that chasing down a suspected murder through the streets of London.
The coward.
There were experiments with make-up and hairstyles, ghost stories and a scary movie while huddled in a circle in the darkened sitting room, sleeping bags and sugary treats in the middle of the night.
The next morning, an exhausted Molly waved goodbye to the girls and their parents as each was picked up. The last to leave was the guest of honour, who rushed back at the last moment to give Molly a heartfelt “I love you, Aunt Molly” and a crushing hug.
On Rosie’s sixteenth birthday, Molly fidgeted and worried along with John, Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson (although none of them would admit to worrying as they hovered about Baker Street) while Rosie spent the evening ‘hanging out’ with a few of her friends. Some of which were boys.
“It’s not a date,” she had been quick to reassure her dad. “Well, Michelle is dating Rashad, but the rest of us are just friends.”
Molly made a mental note to speak with John later about the fact that Rosie was sixteen and while her night out with friends might not have been a ‘date’, there was a very good chance that would change in the near future.
She also made a mental note to speak with Rosie about the very real possibility that anyone she dated would be vetted by an overprotective father, an uncle who worked for Scotland Yard, the British Government, and an uncle who knew seventeen different ways to ruin someone’s life with just a few pointed words.
Oddly, Sherlock had no cases to work on; almost as if he wanted to make sure he and John were available at a moment’s notice.
For her part, Molly had slipped Rosie a tenner and made her promise that if anything made her the least bit uncomfortable, she would find the nearest cab and call as soon as she had a chance. Regardless, Molly wanted a detailed recap of the entire evening, and she especially wanted to know if Jared was really as dreamy as Rosie had hoped.
On Rosie’s eighteenth birthday, Molly stood next to her husband and John and Teresa (John’s second wife), and waved goodbye to her Goddaughter as she climbed into her boyfriend’s car.
The two couples regularly met for dinner and board games at least twice a month; a chance for the men to reminisce about their younger years, when leaping from rooftop to rooftop without a thought to their safety was a much more common occurrence. Sherlock still took plenty of cases, and still called on John for assistance on a regular basis, but now they occasionally brought Archie along when they thought they might need a bit of extra muscle or speed.
“She’ll be fine,” Teresa reassured her husband. “It’s just a few days.”
“You know how much she’s been looking forward to this. Simon’s a good boy. And Rosie has been camping plenty of times, she’ll know what to do if anything happens,” Molly took her turn at trying to offer reassurance. “Which it won’t, so I don’t know why I even mentioned it.”
“Oh for God’s sake, John. She’s eighteen. Everyone on the trip has been screened by Mycroft’s people. They’ll be staying at a well-known, popular camping park. There will be other people within shouting distance at all times. She’ll be fine,” Sherlock huffed.
“You’re right. You’re right. It’s not often we’ve got an empty house for four whole days.” John reached for Teresa’s hand and brought it up to his lips. “Let’s make the most of it, shall we?”
The Watsons headed into the kitchen to start dinner preparations, leaving Molly and Sherlock to look out at the empty street where Simon’s car had been. She leaned her head against Sherlock’s arm. “You arranged for the Park Warden to check in on them every night, right?”
“Mmmhmm. And I’ve got a pair of hikers who will set up camp next to them, equipped with a satellite phone and a first-rate med kit.”
Molly grinned and pressed a kiss against his cheek. “She’ll kill us if she finds out, you know.”
“We’ll blame it on Mycroft.”
On Rosie’s twenty-first birthday, Molly cried. Again.
Rosie had come home from university for the weekend, Simon in tow and a diamond ring on her finger.
“We’re planning to wait until we graduate to get married, so there’s ages before we need to start planning anything; but we wanted to tell you all as soon as possible.”
After several rounds of congratulations and a large lunch, Molly found herself in the small attic of the Watson house with Rosie and Teresa. The three women dug through dusty boxes and cobwebs, until Teresa found the case they were looking for.
They drug it into the circle of light from the bare overhead bulb and Rosie reverently opened the case to find the items that had been so lovingly packed away more than two decades before.
Rosie held her mother’s wedding dress to her chest, and Molly carefully arranged the veil over Rosie’s hair.
Teresa clasped her hands together and gave Rosie a watery smile. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
“Do you think Mum would mind?” Rosie asked with a waver in her voice.
“I think she’d be delighted, my love.” Molly sniffled and wiped her hand across her eyes.