Archive of Our Own ^beta

When John called that afternoon, his voice had been rushed but apologetic. Harry’s had a relapse and she needs me here for a few days. I hate to ask, but could you and Molly take Rosie out tonight? It’s her first proper Halloween… 

Sherlock had protested, of course, until Molly firmly pointed out that as Rosie’s godparents, this was exactly what they were meant to do. 

He muttered, “I don’t see why she requires both of us.” Whilst Molly adjusted Rosie’s crooked headband with its felt horns. 

Molly reminded him, “She’s four, Sherlock. And it’s her first real Halloween. John trusts us. Besides, you’re her godfather. Tonight’s about Rosie, not your experiments.” 

Rosie hopped impatiently by the door. “Trick or treat!” she announced to no one in particular. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He said, “Premature.”  

Molly gave him a look, “Play along.”  

And so they walked down a leaf-strewn London street, hand-in-hand with a very excited four-year-old dressed as a tiny dragon. The wings bobbed as Rosie hopped along, her scaly green tail dragging behind her, pumpkin bucket rattling as she skipped from house to house.  

As they approached the first house with a glowing pumpkin in the window, Sherlock sniffed. “Imported American custom. Not traditionally English. If we were being accurate, she’d be reciting rhymes and begging for a penny on All Hallows’ Eve, not mass-produced confectionery.” 

She shouted, “trick or treat!” at each door, proudly showing her loot to Molly while Sherlock observed the neighbourhood with sharp eyes, occasionally commenting on the quality of the sweets. 

He murmured, “Those are cheap caramel chews from the corner shop. Entirely uninspired.” 

Rosie shoved one into his hand anyway, “For you.” 

Sherlock blinked down at the sticky sweet. “…Thank you.” He tucked it into his pocket as though it were evidence. 

By the fourth house, Rosie was clutching both their hands, swinging between them as she chattered. Molly caught Sherlock glancing at her once or twice, the corners of his mouth tugging upward when Rosie squealed with delight at chocolate bars. 

Molly teased, “You’re enjoying this.” 

Sherlock sniffed, “Hardly. I’m simply observing. Children reveal much about human behaviour.” 

Rosie interrupted by tugging at his coat. “Uncle Sherlock, can you say trick or treat with me this time?” 

Molly stifled a laugh at the horrified look on his face. But when the door opened, Sherlock bent slightly and, in his deep baritone, intoned solemnly, “Trick or treat.” 

The woman at the door beamed. “Oh, what a lovely family! Here you go, sweetie.” She dropped a sweet into Rosie’s bucket. 

Molly flushed crimson, but Rosie just chirped, “Thank you!” before pulling them along to the next house. 

Sherlock, however, looked strangely pleased. “A family,” he repeated under his breath. 

Molly’s heart gave a traitorous little flutter. She smiled at him as Rosie skipped ahead, “Not the worst assumption,” she said softly. 

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on hers in the glow of a jack-o’-lantern, and for once, he didn’t argue. 

As they continued down the street, Rosie swung between them, dragon tail bouncing against the pavement. When she finally tired and clutched Molly’s leg sleepily, Sherlock lifted her into his arms without hesitation. She snuggled against his coat, half-asleep, still clutching her bucket. 

Molly smiled softly at the sight. She whispered, “You’re better at this than you think.”  

His gaze flicked to hers, the glow of a jack-o’-lantern flickering across sharp cheekbones. “With the right partner,” he said, voice low. 

Molly’s breath caught, but she managed, “Good thing Rosie’s got two.” 

Sherlock’s lips curved into the faintest smile, and as Rosie drifted to sleep against his shoulder, Molly slipped her hand into his free one. He didn’t let go. 

By the time they reached Baker Street, Rosie was fast asleep against Sherlock’s shoulder, her dragon tail over his arm. Molly unlocked the flat door quietly, and they slipped inside.  

Sherlock lowered Rosie carefully onto the sofa, arranging her bucket of sweets within reach. She stirred, murmured something about “more chocolate,” and promptly fell back asleep with a tiny dragon snore. 

Molly laughed under her breath. “She’s going to be impossible tomorrow.” 

“She inherited that stubborn streak from her mother,” Sherlock replied dryly, though his gaze lingered on the small, sleeping figure with an unexpected tenderness. 

Molly draped a blanket over Rosie and stepped back, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. When she turned, Sherlock was watching her, still as a statue, but with an intensity that made her heart race. 

She asked softly, “What?” 

He tilted his head, “You looked at ease. Entirely natural with her.” 

Molly admitted, “She’s easy to love. Besides, someone has to balance out your cynicism.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched. He took a step closer, lowering his voice, “And yet, I wasn’t as dreadful as you expected tonight.” 

She said, “No, you were wonderful.” 

There was a pause.  Sherlock’s hand brushed against hers, tentative, then more certain as he entwined their fingers. 

He murmured, “You heard what that neighbour said, about us being a family.” 

Molly’s breath caught, “I heard.” 

“And?” His blue eyes searched hers, sharp and vulnerable all at once. 

She hesitated, then whispered, “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” 

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Sherlock bent, gently, almost reverently, and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t dramatic or sweeping - just warm, certain, and a little sweet. 

When they pulled apart, Molly was smiling. “Happy Halloween, Sherlock.” 

His eyes softened with a rare warmth, “Happy Halloween, Molly.” 

On the sofa, Rosie stirred again, muttering something about “dragons get the mostest sweets…” and both of them laughed quietly before settling together on the floor beside her, hands still linked.