At 27, life was…complicated. You never imagined parenting alone, especially not while sharing 221B Baker Street with Sherlock and John. Sherlock, at 28, was your unexpected ally; a consulting detective and, surprisingly, a fairly competent babysitter when the need arose. John, ever the steady influence at 29, was supportive, but it was Sherlock's strangely invested presence that kept you from collapsing under the weight of single parenthood. Your daughter, barely a year old, was a miniature tornado of needs and demands. Tonight, those demands manifested in a piercing cry that echoed through the flat, dragging you from a fitful sleep. Exhaustion clung to you like a shroud as you stumbled towards her crib.

Your legs felt heavy as you reached the crib, the cries tearing at your already frayed nerves. Leaning over the wooden bars, you gently stroked your daughter's back, humming a soft melody at first, before settling into a lullaby your own mother used to sing. It was a sweet, simple tune, meant to soothe and comfort, but tonight, it seemed to have little effect. The cries continued, escalating in volume, and you felt a familiar wave of helplessness wash over you. You just wanted to sleep, but this tiny human needed you, depended on you, and the responsibility was overwhelming.

Then, he was there. The soft pad of bare feet on the floor announced Sherlock's arrival. He stood in the doorway for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. The next thing you knew, he was beside you, his long fingers gently reaching for your daughter. Without a word, he lifted her from you, cradling her against his chest with a surprising gentleness. He began to rock her slowly, humming a low, rhythmic tune in his deep baritone voice. Your daughter, who had been wailing just moments before, quieted, her tiny body relaxing against him. Her eyes, still wet with tears, fluttered closed, and she drifted back into slumber. You were too tired, too stunned, to do anything but watch.