Sherlock stares into the eyes of the toddler sitting on the chair across from him. Wide green eyes stare back. They will grow to be sharp, but for now they are easily distracted. Rosie starts to get off her father's chair and Sherlock catches her before she falls. He'd never imagined that he'd live this life, that he'd care for a child.

John's working overtime at the clinic, making up for the weeks he'd missed after Mary's death and the… situation surrounding Eurus. Sherlock hadn't officially taken any cases, citing John's diagnoses of acute stress disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder, though neither was entirely accurate. John, contrarily, has been nagging him for a case. Sherlock suspects that John wants more distractions, more reference to how things were, but he hasn't wanted a case for a long time. He does take opium, when John's out with Rosie and Mrs. Hudson's doing something and he won't be bothered.

Self-reflection is never a pleasant experience and he stops before he loses himself in his mind palace. Sherlock returns his full attention to his goddaughter, who has begun beating one of the plastic organs that she'd been playing with against the wall. The heart, ironically. He watches her, almost sadly.

"The heart's a rather delicate organ and one that it is ever so fragile. Best not to play with that one," he gathers a melange of toys that were scattered in front of them, taking the heart from her. Rose happily runs a liver across the arm of the chair and Sherlock stares pensively at the plastic heart.

"Can't handle a broken heart. How very telling." The statement, originally intended as a jab at Mycroft's lack of empathy, was now applicable to his own life. The realization that he had forgotten his childhood friend and sister could only show that Sherlock was the emotional Holmes sibling. He closes his eyes, but his mind palace is a disaster. The faces of Moriarty, his sister, and Mary refuse to leave him alone. Mary and Moriarty, he can do nothing except file and delete information. But Eurus…

His sister was ill, sick in the mind. They all were, the Holmes siblings. Emotions were to be treasured, not rejected as with Mycroft or twisted as Eurus did. Privately, Sherlock rather envied the ease with which John dealt with his own emotions. Grief, pain, anger, all were very clearly expressed in John's visage. But Sherlock had John, whereas Mycroft and Eurus had only had their parents. Sherlock had had Victor, while Eurus had only had him.

Rosie's pulling his hair, forcibly bringing Sherlock out of his mind palace. He gently disentangles her hands from his curls and picks her up.

"Why don't we get some real organs to play with, then?" He asks her, settling her into her pram. Rosie coos, and Sherlock takes her response as an affirmative. "Let's go see Molly." The faintest smile appears on his face, hardly noticeable but to those who knew him best.