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Iris’ rapid development was nothing short of both a miracle and a mystery to Herlock Sholmes.
The milestone markers in all of the childcare books were approximations, of course – there was no precise given time for when each motor and cognitive skill would unfold, and it was normal for it to vary with each child. Sholmes had tried to chalk it up to him being extra surprised as a first-time parent… but nonetheless, everything felt so soon.
The moment Iris could lift her head and push her body up at three months, it became an arms race to see which skill she'd develop next. Pinching, grabbing, and tugging were all mastered successfully (as Sholmes frequently found himself and his hair becoming victims of the infant's hands), and her babbling went from incomprehensible to attempting to mirror coherent speech within a span of a couple of months. Trying to match the syllables spoken when prompted and imitating Sholmes turned into a favorite pastime. There was little need to have to try to pique her interest in learning; she was enraptured by anything and everything presented to her, absorbing as much as she could process.
It was both exhilarating and daunting to Sholmes – for one it made his heart ache to think of all of the knowledge he could pass down to his daughter, but the seemingly endless possibilities left him feeling dizzy. To really think about it was to acknowledge the vastness of how much there is to be learned, and how much time they had – they have their entire lives ahead of them yet, and once again, he is reminded that he is a father at the age of twenty-four.
A father! It had taken sleeping through that fateful night with the weight of the newborn settled against his chest for the fact to fully process. What made a father? His wasn't much good to him, he thought; and truth be told, he had never really truly considered having children before. It was better off that Mikotoba named her - he might've named her Ammonia otherwise.
And yet, even though Sholmes had never thought he would end up with a child in his care through such circumstances, he felt an undeniable swell in his heart each time he regarded himself as her father. He felt it now, looking out across the living room as Iris stirred in her crib and began to wake from her mid-day nap.
“Good afternoon dear,” he says gently, crouching down and peeking over her crib. He places one finger into a small open palm and she squeezes softly, looking back up at him and cooing.
Immediately seized with fondness, Sholmes pushes down the choking feeling in his throat and lifts her up out of the crib. He does her routine post-nap diaper check and, relieved to be met with dry cotton, cradles her in the crook of one arm while he carries her to the kitchen. He hums a familiar tune to try to keep her occupied while he slices banana and strawberry pieces, scraping them into a small bowl and fetching a bottle of milk before returning to the living room.
Iris squirms briefly just as Sholmes is getting her meal situated on the sofa and finally, she is placed down beside him. While she happily works on eating her fruit, he flips through the morning newspaper. Nothing is particularly remarkable: a new mayor being elected in a small town he's never been to is perhaps the biggest piece of news to be found in the entire paper, and his disappointment is made abundantly clear in his absence of rambling to accompany the reading. Instead, Sholmes leans his head back and drapes the fanned out pages over his face, blowing out a gusty sigh that makes them flap around. Iris giggles through a mouthful of strawberry at the sight.
That is the most welcome thing he's heard all day. Infinitely more entertaining than anything printed on a piece of paper. Lifting the newspaper from his face, he raises an eyebrow and grins back at Iris, who is now washing down her fruit with her bottle of milk.
“You think that's funny, hm?”
Sholmes, moving to replicate what he just did but with Iris, quickly realizes that the ratio of head to newspaper size is drastically different when doing it to a baby – and effectively makes a baby-newspaper sandwich. Regardless, Iris bursts out into laughter, and the smile on Sholmes’ face only gets wider. He can hardly restrain the laughter rising in his throat for a few seconds longer before joining her.
--
After she finished her food, Sholmes lit the fireplace and put her on the ground to have her supervised crawl time. As always (and much to his back's protest), he seated himself against the sofa while sitting on the floor, engrossing himself in the closest book he could find. He read aloud this time. This was their established routine; Sholmes would find something to read out loud while Iris entertained herself and explored just a few feet away, oftentimes listening in as though she understood every word being spoken. He'd play with her as well of course – Iris was especially fond of peek-a-boo when it involved his deerstalker cap, and would try pulling it away before he peeped out from behind it.
More often than not, Iris would eventually crawl to him and cuddle up against him, falling asleep as he read. This afternoon was not one of those days. Instead, she kept herself busy with her blocks, stacking and rearranging while listening. By the time Sholmes had gotten a few chapters into whatever book he was reading, he was gradually nodding off. The warmth of the fireplace was getting to him.
While he fought to keep himself awake, Iris took advantage of the fact that she wasn't being watched as intently. Carefully, she planted one hand against the side of her crib and pulled herself into an upright sitting position. She reached out her other arm and, gripping the bars for extra leverage, she tried to push herself up. The first few attempts were futile - she landed back down on her rump. Refusing to be discouraged, she tried again and again, hanging onto her crib for extra support while she tried to figure out how to get into and maintain a standing position.
By now, Sholmes’ face was in the pages of the book. If something didn't rouse him soon, the only thing that would mark his place in it would be the drool he would leave behind on accident. Iris was still tenacious in her efforts to stand on two feet, but not making nearly enough of a ruckus to properly jolt him out of it.
That is, until Iris finally got herself to stay standing upright and shifted her weight forward, causing a floorboard to squeak. Sholmes’ eyes fluttered open. He blinked, pulling the book away from his face before startling at the fact that he'd just started dozing off with his baby unsupervised for– how long has it been?! – then he looks at the clock and only ten minutes have passed, but anything can happen to a baby in ten minutes – and then he finally looks up again properly, hearing another floorboard squeak, and his breath catches in his throat.
He meets Iris’ gaze. His ten month old daughter is standing on her own, just a few feet away from him. His anxiety immediately dissolves and is replaced with an excitement so overwhelming he cannot speak at first, along with another emotion he can't place - perhaps pride, all he knows is it makes his eyes sting and his heart feel like it's doing flips - and he reaches his arms forward, beckoning for her to come closer and take her first steps.
“Come here, Iris! You can do it!”
His voice comes out hoarser than he expects, thicker with emotion than he had meant it to be, but it's just the push she needs. She totters forward, wobbling slightly, but maintains her balance. Carefully, and with quiet ushering and persistent encouragement from Sholmes, she makes two steps forward - then another, then she needs a moment to collect herself as walking is such a brand new process.
After a few more small, tentative steps, the distance between them is a mere arm's reach for Sholmes. But for her, it requires so much concentration and balance that she fears she might not make it to him without at least one tumble.
“You're almost there!”
Looking again, Sholmes’ arms don't look so far away; and his voice is reassuring enough that she takes his word for it. He holds his breath again, waiting, watching as she takes another few clumsy steps. There are six made in total before she tumbles into his outstretched arms, grabbing and hooking her tiny fingers around his neck ribbon while he hugs her against his chest.
He tries to say something, but his throat and chest are so tight and constricted with emotion that all that initially comes out is a squeaky wheeze as he holds her tight.
“I'm so proud of you Iris,” he manages to get out, feeling his eyes well up with tears. He blinks quickly, trying to get rid of them but only succeeding in making them run down his cheeks, and he lets out a weak laugh.
The patter of one teardrop hits Iris’ finger and she lets go of his ribbon with one hand, reaching up and wiping his cheek as if to try and brush away his tears the way he does to her, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He presses his forehead against hers.
--
That night, after Sholmes has sung and played her lullabies using both his voice and violin, he holds her hand in her crib to the best of his ability – that is, only really being able to have Iris hang onto one or two fingers with her whole hand with the difference in size – and he remains there, just thinking about how lucky he is to experience this at all.
To have a baby entrusted in his care, to nurture someone and watch as they take their first steps and speak their first words and come into their own; it may not have been how Sholmes envisioned spending his mid-twenties, but he wouldn't have it any other way. And even if a baby walking at ten months wasn't unprecedented… well, he'd be damned if he didn't brag about it to everybody he could. The first draft of the telegram he had sent to Mikotoba about Iris learning to walk had to be scrapped because his writing turned into chicken scrawl in the midst of his excitement and pride. Illegible enough that he himself couldn't make heads nor tails out of it.
(There were also stains from teardrops on the first draft, but he didn't admit that in the telegram that made it out.)