There was a small wailing coming from the adjoining room. She carefully untangled herself from the arm wrapped around her still slightly chubby middle and padded barefoot through the darkness. Her daughter blinked at her but went back to sleep when she started to caress her head gently.
She had never seen this coming for herself.
She had been convinced that she would spend her life alone, always pining for that dark-haired genius who never even really saw her. She thought she would get a cat and become one of those old lonely (and a little scary) ladies who talk to themselves.
That she owed this new life of hers to Sherlock was kind of ironic.
They had now and then met over a dead body, but she only really started noticing him at one of John’s Christmas parties (where Sherlock always pretended to be busy and to not care about having friends). At first they connected over their shared annoyance over Sherlock but that was soon replaced by genuine interest.
The first dates were terribly awkward but he suffered through them and after a year he moved in with her. Little Rosie was born seven months later. The future was suddenly looking bright.
She crawled back into bed and Greg smiled sleepily at her.
“Mmh. Missed you. Come here, baby.”