His attention had strayed for barely 15 minutes. Yet, Sherlock stands frozen in the doorway and watches as his four year old daughter happily defaces Mrs Hudson’s ancient wallpaper. His brief lapse in concentration was apparently long enough for her to grab her crayons (tucked down the side of Sherlock’s armchair for precisely this reason) and get to work on her latest masterpiece.
He heaves a sigh, sinking down on the floor beside her, making a mental note to send a strongly worded text to his brother regarding the presents Imogen receives from him. Her little pink tongue sticks out as she colours in a slightly wonky heart, struggling to stay inside the lines. Just below three or four other hearts are four figures.
“Is that me?” he asks, pointing to the largest figure. She nods distractedly.
“It could almost be a photo of me.” Sherlock mumbles, admiring the black scribble that makes up his hair. “Who’s that with me?”
“That’s mummy,” she points to a figure in white, with a spiky brown ponytail; “and me,” a tiny figure in a pink dress, with blue eyes the same colour as his; “and Deedee.” The last figure is two circles of bright orange, with four lines for legs, two orange triangles for ears, and a smiley face. ‘Deedee’ is Imogen’s nickname for their cat, Dmitri Shostakovich (named by Sherlock, much to Molly’s disgust) who was bought shortly after Toby died.
“Very good job.”
“Do you like it, Daddy?”
“I like it very much. However, I’m not sure the same can be said about Mrs Hudson.”
I think I was the only child in my family who never drew on the walls in crayons which is really weird considering you’re all looking at my art