sherlock holmes did not consider him a domestic man.

not in the slightest, really. he'd done all he could to avoid domesticity, dodged every budding relationship, danced around anyone under the age of twelve to avoid any possible inkling of attachment.

and then you and your daughter hit him in the face like a sack of pure, oozing emotion.

well, shit.

now he found himself hopelessly besotted with both you and your four-year-old daughter- matilda. he settled for 'matty' because of how dreadful your ex-partner's baby naming skills were.

she was an angel, as far as he was concerned- opinion certainly not biased by the fact that she utterly adored him. entirely uncharacteristic, both of you were acutely aware, but he humored her and showed affection in his own strange, sherlockian way. and in return, she pulled his hair and put in a good word with you.

not that he needed one, but it was always good to be certain in the realm of love.

"darling," he ventured one day, standing in the doorframe of 221b bakers street as he so often did. "matty's asking for fifteen more minutes with the tv."

you had to admit, she was clever. sending your fiancé to do her dirty work.