word count: 1,993

write about a descendant of a character, and how they do/don't follow their parent's path.

#DescendentsFanfic

"Obvious?"

The teen grinned at the clear astonishment shown on her father's face.

It was difficult to believe John Watson could be impressed by anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps the look of shock was fake; she definitely considered it. Nonetheless, Rose gave the man a shrug of indifference and gestured to the bath.

"The water," she began, only to stop herself short when she directly looked at the victim. It was difficult to conceal her gag.

A dead man laid inside of the bath, eyes shut peacefully. His white button-up shirt was tinted with his own diluted blood. Purple veins were visible through his translucent skin, spreading up his neck like the reaching hands of Death himself.

The smell of the man's rotting flesh indicated that he had been dead for more than a few days. Rose knew she couldn't last any longer with the suffocating smell.

"It's red." The displeased detective who spoke up crossed her arms, looking unimpressed.

The teen barely gave Donovan a glance at her obvious observation, "No. Next?"

"It's pink. Low blood flow."

Always up to her father to answer correctly. Rose smirked to herself, knowing it wasn't the first time he had shown skill when examining a crime scene. She wondered if her father purposely acted like a dolt around Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps they could team up and attempt to deduce Sherlock one day, give him a taste of his own medicine.

She snapped back to reality when she realized everyone was staring at her, waiting for her to answer. She immediately pointed to the violent scars that ran up the victim's pale wrists, hoping she didn't stare into space for too long.

"If he killed himself in the bath like his wrists imply, the redness of the water would be darker. But..." she faced Donovan with a smirk on her face. "His heart stopped pumping blood before he was in the water, hence the lack of... redness."

Donovan never liked it when Rose came in and helped with cases. She hadn't even gotten the chance to study the body before Rose came barging in.

Her distaste for people who showed off their deduction skills gave Rose the motivation she needed to arrive at every single case given to her. She loved annoying others and proving people wrong.

However, unknown to Donovan, Rose didn't even need to use her mind for this case. A similar homicide was featured in an underrated zombie television show she loved. Unlike her father, Rose liked to stay at home and watch television shows instead of running around London and solving crimes.

"Someone killed him, before placing him in the bath and slitting his wrists," a new voice spoke up, breaking the silence.

Detective Greg Lestrade leaned against the bathroom's doorframe, heavy bags under his eyes.

His greying hair was pointed in different directions, while his shirt was inside-out. It didn't take a genius to know he woke up a bit too late today. He was the one who had called Rose to the crime scene, knowing she enjoyed these sort of puzzles.

Rose nodded, "The murderer was smart, but also an idiot. You'll either see water in his lungs... Or traces of deadly toxins in his blood."

"Do you know who did this?" John questioned.

She let out a scoff, "I can't really figure that out by studying a middle-aged man's toilet. It's probably best to get Sherlock to check this out before the medical examiners arrive. Although, I'm sure Scotland Yard can figure this out themselves."

She couldn't blame Greg for assigning these simple cases to her. If she was Greg Lestrade, she'd definitely consider using extra skills to save up time. Besides, he only asks her to help if he's too busy with his own life; it's difficult to plan anniversaries with unsolved cases in mind.

She wasn't as good as the great Sherlock Holmes, but her quick thinking lets her solve puzzles like these a bit faster than normal. Plus, Sherlock would never assist Greg with amateur cases, he'd be 'bored' the second he stepped inside the room.

"Great, thank yo-"

Rose raised a finger, efficiently cutting off Greg Lestrade's thanks. "Judging by the fake suicide note left on his kitchen counter... He was very close to the person who killed him."

"Or... maybe he really did kill himself and we wasted our time coming here. He left a note for Christ's sake!"

"No," Rose shook her head at Donovan's words, "The attempt to replicate his writing is horrible, the pressure of the pen is too hard. You can tell the killer had shaky hands when writing it. Feel free to compare the note with the victim's journal or grocery lists or something. As for the murderer, I suspect he or she has to be close enough to the victim to know his childhood toy. Then again, I could be wrong. Best to ask Sherlock, but I doubt he care for this case."

The brunette nodded to herself awkwardly when she realized everyone was staring at her in amazement.

Greg Lestrade gave her a look of disbelief. "You took less than three minutes."

"So?" She didn't understand why her time was something to be proud of. Her godfather could solve it the second he entered the room.

"You're only fourteen!"

"Sixteen." John corrected.

Greg brushed off his mistake and gave her father a smile, as if he had just realized he was there, "Oh, happy birthday."

Instead of joining in on the pointless conversation, she attempted to calm her panicking heart. Something familiar was starting to burn up her throat as the overwhelming smell of blood engulfed her senses.

Rose's mind raced. Her godparents would no doubt ask her about this case the second they meet. It would be embarrassing to confess that she puked on a crime scene. Again.

Unfortunately, her quick thinking couldn't hide who she truly was: an overachieving girl with a weak stomach.

Despite her attempt to push the image away, the blood and sickly skin of the victim had imprinted itself into her mind. She hated blood, she hated the sight of dead bodies. Her stomach hated crime scenes, as much as her brain loved puzzles.

And so, it didn't come as a shock to anyone when Rose emptied her stomach into the toilet next to her. She coughed awkwardly when the feeling subsided, knowing she had just tampered with a crime scene. Rosamund Mary Watson flushed red as she felt the gazes of everyone on her, wanting to sink into the floor.

It wasn't like she had a choice. John Watson wasn't impressed with her straight-A grade, nor was he glad when she was declared the 'Best Student' in her Animation Course. It was until Rose solved her first case at the age of fourteen when she actually knew her father was truly proud. He'd be disappointed when she finally confesses that she doesn't want to become a detective, that her dream is to animate stories for the world to see.

"That was fun," she declared, rolling her eyes. "Are we still having dinner at Mrs. Hudson's tonight?" she then asked, turning to look at her father.

"I assume so... Unless you have plans."

Rose gave her dad a twitch of a smile, "It's a bit hard to make plans without any friends."

"Nice to see you again Mrs. Hudson," the tired teen gave the lady a tight hug as soon as the door opened. Her father was beginning to question her about university choices, unknowingly creating a suffocating atmosphere. "How's your hip?"

"You know how it is, dear. Thanks for asking."

"Again?" John's forehead creased in question. "We haven't visited since Christmas."

The two females shared a look of amusement, enjoying John's confusion. Unknown to him, had secretly met up at 221B Baker Street the day before, working hard on a cake with his name on it.

"Er- Nothing," Rose shrugged nonchalantly, "I just came over here yesterday and helped Mrs. Hudson rearrange her furniture."

"You said you went to the library to study for an upcoming biology exam."

There was an awkward pause.

"I... I did! But... then... Mrs. Hudson called me and said she needed my help. She didn't want to bother you and Sherlock. That's why I came home a bit late last night." She gave her father an innocent grin.

'Smooth,' the teen gave herself a mental pat-on-the-back. The lies she often found herself spewing under pressure were never disappointing.

"Well-"

Mrs. Hudson interrupted John by ushering them inside the familiar building frantically. Rose did her best to hold her laugh while watching the lady flail her arms around, "Don't want another mosquito infestation."

"But-" John attempted again, only to be cut off by a question directed to Mrs. Hudson.

"Is Sherlock here?"

"Obviously not," said a figure at the top of the stairs. The curly-haired man gave John a long stare, "Did you buy my gingernuts?"

"No, I-"

"Of course not. Rosie?"

The teen cracked a smile at the serious expression on her godfather's face. They might live in the same house, it didn't mean they saw each other as often anymore. With her homework and his complicated cases, Rose was beginning to forget how quick the atmosphere changes when around him.

She studied him. The eerie moon cast shadows on Sherlock's face, defining his tall cheekbones. His piercing green eyes scanned the room, calculating his surroundings unintentionally. Rose often wondered if Sherlock ever had a chance to become a secret agent, instead of a detective. It would definitely fit his cool demeanour.

"Don't call me that," she eventually protested. "And I didn't know you wanted them. Can't say I'm sorry though."

He immediately turned around and started to head up the stairs, "You're all a disappointment."

The teen snickered, running to catch up with him. "How was your case?"

"Boring."

"Greg was really impressed with how I solved his case today."

He chuckled, "At least you've evolved from throwing rattles."

"Shut up." Out of all the memories, he always brings up the toddler days where she would throw rattles in his face.

John and Mrs. Hudson watched as the two detectives headed upstairs, chatting about their day.

Unlike what many people assumed, written, or even secretly fantasized, Rosamund Mary Watson wasn't the secret child of John Watson and his best mate.

Although, John couldn't help but wonder if that was the truth sometimes.

Rose laughed, watching as her father tried on Sherlock's deerstalker cap. He purposely straightened the collar of his shirt, imitating a calculative expression he claimed Sherlock had.

The dinner would be over soon. She knew her father wouldn't allow her to stay up too late on a school night. She didn't have the heart to tell him that the bodies of victims haunted her mind every night, hidden in the shadows of her room. Sleep would never be an option if she continued to dismiss her opinions.

Mycroft could get her a place in the government if she chose to go into politics or law, while she could also choose to be Sherlock's apprentice. Rose also had good enough grades to go to medical school. The most difficult thing was, her father wanted her to decide on her future before her senior year comes; which would be the coming year.

When they all found out she had a skill for observing her surroundings, they assumed she would be a detective like Sherlock. Molly, her godmother, couldn't show up to dinner because of a recent attack; she had many autopsies to do. She always assumed Rose would go into medicine like her father. No one considered her own opinions. No one would've guessed Rose would like to follow a different path.

"I- I have something to say." Rose twisted her fingers, finding herself terrified to see any disappoint appear on their faces. "My teacher has connections... He already recommended me to some of his friends in an admission office. After seeing my works, they said they will make sure my application is at the top of a file."

Their eyes all lit up with excitement at the news.

"That's great!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, pulling Rose in for a hug. "You know, I knew you would choose medical school. You're smart as smart as your father."

"That's the thing," Rose said, already regretting her choice. "It's for De Montfort. They want me to apply for a scholarship... For animation."