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Chapter Text

"Mycroft, for once in your life, indulge me," said a certain consulting detective while trying to keep hold of his brother's left arm, the one not holding the ubiquitous umbrella.
"All my life has been dedicated to your whims, Sherlock! What are we doing here, and why are you missing your appointment with Lady Smallwood and making me miss mine with the European Commissioner?"
"Well, your department chief understood how important my mission here was and we have rescheduled for this afternoon. As for the European Commissioner, I should think you would be happy to miss yet another chance of eating crow after the so-called Referendum. Besides, getting the right things requires my brilliance and your lamentably useful conventionality."
The pair were striding down Victoria Str, and Mycroft couldn't even grumble about the distance, since it was a stone's throw from Whitehall and his own discreet office behind William Str.
The good thing about being reasonably tall -*bloody giraffes*, in a certain vertically-challenged doctor's opinion- was that they had a longer stride and thus reached their destination faster.
"Pray what are you intending to do here?" queried the elder.
"Acquire all the necessities for the role I am to play shortly," replied the younger with an exaggerated eye roll.
"Now that is a puzzle I cannot solve: how can you, an avowed non-believer, go through the whole rigmarole of a christening, and a Catholic one at that, is beyond my powers of logical thinking!"
"Simple, Mary requested it, Mary will get her way as long as John is safe from her. After all, I was the best man, I was the logical choice for godfather. Of course, if you had been chosen to play that role, I might need to capitalise the first letter."
"Very droll, Sherlock, now that we're here, let's get on with the selection of the appropriate trousseau for Ms. Watson."
The House of Fraser had such a selection of christening outfits that the brothers were bound to spend a considerable amount of time looking through the brand names and the selection available, from Armani to Westwood. The last one had both brothers shaking their heads in unison. No way Willa Elizabeth Watson was going to be dressed in a christening outfit by the late Moriarty's favourite designer!
They finally settled on Heritage Girl's silk outfit, complete with long silk dress, bonnet, silk booties, frilly silk panties and matching Ophelia shawl, setting Mycroft back 350 pounds, give or take.
"Why am I financing this flight of fancy, again?"
"You must admit, dear brother, that it's money well-spent. Next stop, Hamleys; I need to get her the biggest plush bee in the whole United Kingdom!"
With a sigh, Mycroft pulled out his phone and made a request for his car to pick them up and take them to Picadilly Circus.

Chapter Text

Once Willa had started crawling and even occasionally standing up with help, Mary decided it was time to remove all traces of her past life from their suburban house, so she used the occasion when both John and Sherlock were on a case for NSY to go up to the attic, shunt aside some heavy boxes full of old copies of the Bone and Joint Surgery magazine her husband used to subscribe to when he was still an active surgeon, and opened a locked cupboard behind them to reveal her working gear, so to speak. She wasn't particularly sure that she would fit into the body-hugging outfit after the birth of her daughter, since adipose fat seemed to stick to belly and hips no matter how hard she tried to get rid of it by exercising and eating salad like a rabbit. But her main concern remained the long-range precision rifle with its infra-red scope and silencer, not to mention her beloved Walther PKK handgun.
All these belonged to the past, and if she wanted a normal family life (define 'normal' with Sherlock around) she would have to eradicate all traces of her unsavoury past.
Gathering the black instrument-like case and the smaller box with its combination lock, she made her way to the pitiful excuse of a lawn at the back of the house.
Mary didn't seem to have a green thumb, and all of John's experiments with vegetables had fared equally badly, despite his conviction that they would be able to grow their own tomatoes, fennel, chives, spring onions, even turnips and sage. At the moment, what thrived in the back garden were weeds and tall grass.
However, she had prudently shopped for an olive tree sapling the day before, having been assured by the garden centre owner that they thrived under adverse conditions, going for long without watering or any special care.
She used their lawn-mower to clean a patch, then took out a spade and started digging. It was hard, laborious, back-breaking work, but no harder than she had encountered in her past life. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and kept on digging, until she had reached a depth of six feet. Was she subconsciously trying to bury her past along with her tools of the trade?
Anyway, she placed her precious rifle carefully in the hole, then tossed the gun case on top of it.
Then came the repeat performance of covering them up, but leaving enough space for the olive tree sapling to be planted. She carefully took it out of its burlap wrapping, made sure that it would have enough space to grown on all sides, then firmly planted it, and shovelled earth to make the patch even with the rest of the back garden. She even went to the length of uncoiling the garden hose and wetting the fresh earth around it.
After her task was finished, she went back indoors, took a shower so as not to waste water, and prepared her daughter's mid-day feed along with some left-over soup for herself.
When john came home, he didn't remark on the new olive tree, actually recognising its existence two days later when he went to look at the remains of his tomato-planting efforts.
He came back and kissed her: "What a wonderful idea, to mark Willa's birthday, Mary!"
When Sherlock came to visit on his god daughter's birthday, he took a look and smiled at her: "You overcame your instincts for the safety of your daughter! I always knew that you couldn't be all bad!"

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"Unca Sherlock, when are you and Dad going to take me with you on a case?" grumbled a disgruntled toddler during one of her godfather's visits.
"Who has let my goddaughter watch the Disney Channel?" two auburn eyebrows rose alarmingly as almost to disappear below the unruly curls of a clearly annoyed consulting detective.
Mary looked at John, John returned her level gaze unperturbed. Sherlock huffed and directed his full attention back to the toddler bouncing on his knees: "Now, Miss, you are not to waste the wonderful gifts you were born with on such useless social constructs as cartoon characters of any kind. You are allowed to call me by my given name, or by calling me Uncle, you are definitely not going to imitate three talking ducklings. Do you understand me?"
One of Willa's most endearing traits to her Uncle Sherlock was her uncanny resemblance to John Watson in character as well as physical traits: she folded her hands over her pudgy stomach, jutted out her chin and demanded point-blanc:"What gifts, all I do is paint with my crayons, build figures with PlayDoh, learn boring songs and rhymes, and when I am allowed out in the park, Mum or Dad or Mrs Hudson or Nanny Barnes always hold my hand and never let me explore all the wonderful things there!" As a pout, it was worthy of one of Sherlock's better ones, but that was not the point.
"Exactly, little one, you are to be protected at all times and in all circumstances. You are too precious for anything to happen to you because Dad and I chase criminals and have made numerous powerful enemies over the years.
As for your gifts, they include a razor-sharp mind, a very good hand-eye coordination, a powerful body on sturdy legs that can carry you long distances at a very good rate of speed, a very powerful pair of lungs, as we can all attest to for the first year of your life, and above all, persistence in whatever you do. You only need to grow up a bit more, and then I shall start teaching you how to observe, as opposed to merely seeing things. You are an amazing little girl, and you will make an exceptionally good assistant when the time comes. In fact, you will be better than your Dad or your Mum, since you have the gift of silence as well as the gift of patience. We shall make a formidable team."
"That's all very well, but I want to see Unca Greg at work before he grows too old and retires from his job!" The pout was back full force.
"Ah, well, in that case, we shall ask your Uncle Mycroft to oversee DI Lestrade's career, help him become Superintedent, Chief Superintedent or even a Commander at the Met, so that he won't retire before you get your first glimpse of a crime scene."
"Promise, Uncle Sherlock?" with a very distinct enunciation this time.
"Promise, little one," he smiled one of those radiant smiles that lit up his eyes, and which were becoming increasingly rare, like gifts bestowed on his favourite little person in the world.

Chapter Text

"Sergeant Donovan, I would be obliged if you ceased your activity involving Sergeant Dawson this instant!" said Sherlock, holding Willa by one hand and covering her eyes with the other.
Sally let go of the handsome police officer's face and took a step back: "What is that?" she pointed in an aggrieved tone.
"That is a human female child of approximately two years, for whose eyes French kissing is entirely inappropriate," came the huffy reply.
"So, you and her parents are absolutely OK dragging her to a crime scene, but object to a perfectly natural show of affection!"
"No one would ever call me a prude, Sergeant, but I do think you should keep such exhibitions of affection for the privacy of your home. As for inspecting the crime scene, Little Miss here has been pestering me and her father to take her to one for almost a year. Seeing as this is an ingenious but completely bloodless bank robbery, I talked it over with her parents and got their permission to bring her along. Besides, she wanted to see her Uncle Graham at work, now that he has been promoted."
What Sherlock had neglected to mention was that it was approaching her second birthday, so it was a kind of treat/present for the inquisitive little pest.
He let go of her hand, and she veritably hopped and skipped all around him until Sally let them approach, with a very put-upon expression on her face.
Despite the marble flooring of the bank's main hall, someone had managed to upset a copier's spent ink cartridge, kept behind the tellers' windows onto the floor, so several footprints were discernible in pale outline. Willa made a beeline for them, squatting to get a really close look: "Uncle Sherlock, they are from two different people, the sizes are all wrong!" she cried excitedly.
"Now, what makes you think that? No guesses, or I shall forbid Mrs Hudson to bake you any cheese scones for a week," replied a fond godfather who had to act strict.
"But you also love scones, Uncle Sherlock! Not fair! They are two different types of sole, one is an ordinary trainer, with a pattern, the other is like a small cheese wedge with a peculiar squarish peg behind it."
"When you grow older, I shall teach you how to differentiate trainer tread patters, but for the moment, your assessment is accurate for your age group: one set belongs to a man, foot size 12, the other, which you cannot understand yet, depite Mrs Hudson's wearing them all the time, is what is called a kitten heel shoe, female, size 7. It must belong to the very cool-headed bank employee who had the presence of mind to act so frightened that she upset the ink cartridge lying next to her station. Now, what else can you observe?"
Willa took a deep breath, rose and made for the bank vault;"How does this work, Uncle Sherlock?"
"Well, it's electronically operated through the manager's office, with a time-delay mechanism of ten, no, fifteen minutes, if I go by the make and model." He came to stand right next to her, putting a protective hand on her shoulder. With his acute peripheral vision, he noted that Sally had come to join them on Willa's other side. Something about the shoe pattern drew Willa's interest and she slipped out from under both their protective cover. "Look, Uncle Sherlock!" she pointed.
Both he and Sally immediately realised what had got the little girl so excited about:"Willa, step back this instant!" "little Miss, do as the Fre...Uncle Sherlock tells you!"
Something had gone badly wrong with the robbery, and one or more of the perpetrators together with the female employee were trapped inside the vault.
"Where's the manager?" mouthed Sherlock to Sally. She gestured behind them, to the glass-fronted offices.
"Tell him to operate the vault, and get your best team on the job. I rely on you to out-perform Gavin in this case."
"Will do, but his name is Greg." she smiled, bent down and scooped Willa up in her arms, kissing the chubby cheeks in a transport of emotion she would not be able to define: satisfaction at a job well-done, in lieu of being able to do the same to the toddler's obnoxious but brilliant godfather, relief at wrapping up the case so fast or all three!

"Ms Watson, you are a much better consultant than your godfather, well-mannered and a joy to work with. Will you consider the job, oh, in twenty years' time? I shall have risen in the ranks myself by then: what a team we shall make!"
"Oh, please, Uncle Sherlock's work is fine as a game, but I am going to grow up to be like Dad: it's more important to save lives than solve crimes!" came a very Sherlockian huff as the child wriggled in Sally's arms.
Thereupon, the dumbfounded sergeant put her down, picked up her intracom device and deployed armed and armoured policemen around the entrance to the vault.

Chapter Text

"Uncle Mycroft, why does Dad always write in his blog posts about Uncle Sherlock's adventures on The Work, with capitals?"
It was one of the rare occasions when the stars had conspired, the Universe had been so lazy, Mrs Hudson was absent on a trip to her sister and Nanny Barnes was laid low with a severe cold, which had forced Sherlock and John to leave the pre-schooler with Mycroft, since she could safely be taken to robberies, jewel thefts, art thefts and financial crime scenes, but not to a murder which had left behind a brutally mutilated body, all four extremities hacked off with a chainsaw. As Sherlock himself would be the first to point out, there were limits!
In a way, it was also Mycroft's fault that had landed him in the suburbia, in John and Mary's living room with the growing little girl: a crisis had arisen which had necessitated Mary's help in dealing with it. One could not leave a four-year old unattended when one had a duty to her parents and above all to the continued existence of one's little brother. DS Donovan and Superintendent Lestrade were responsible for the crime investigation, so that left only him to deal with the inquisitive girl and her questions.
Mycroft suppressed his first answer, which was that his baby brother had an ego taller than the London Eye and broader than the Nile in flux, and smiled down at her, as she clung to his armchair and looked up at him with huge blue eyes and awaited his response.
"Well, Willa, I think it is because to Sherlock solving puzzles -and all crimes are puzzles- is the most important part of his existence. Your Dad acknowledges it by using capitals."
"What does 'aknoledz' mean, Uncle Mycroft?"
"It means 'recognise someone or something is worth it'," replied Mycroft, and gave a twirl to the handle of his rolled-up umbrella.
"Is that a real spymaster umbrella, Uncle Mycroft? Can it shoot poison darts or can the handle be taken out to be used as a sword?"
"Certainly not! Who put such idiotic notions in your head, Willa? It's a normal umbrella, carried by many hundreds of my fellow upper civil servants. I occupy a minor position in government."
"Dad and Uncle Sherlock say you ARE the government, Uncle Mycroft."
"Complete and utter nonsense. Now, let's get your tea started."
Mycroft led Willa to the kitchen, which was much better-ordered and cleaner than the one at Baker Str., located the fish fingers and chips in the freezer, extracted six of the first and twenty-four of the second, put them on the appropriate microwave plate, set it to the correct time and then went to put the kettle on, while looking for the tea. He only found Twinnings tea bags, chose Lady Gray for its nice orange aroma, and then disaster struck: no milk in the fridge. He found some tinned milk, hoped that it would be an adequate substitute, and continued with his preparations.
When everything seemed to be ready, Willa was already sitting in her accustomed position at the kitchen island. Mycroft dished up her fish fingers and fries, then warmed the teapot with a bit of the boiling water from the kettle, put in two teabags, poured in the water and let them steep for exactly four minutes, Lady Gray being a highly sensitive brand. He poured tea in Willa's special mug, then added the milk and a lump of sugar. When he had got his own cup of tea and was preparing to take the first tentative sip, he heard a small voice ask: "Where's the mayo? I always have mayo with my fish fingers. It comes in a large plastic bottle with a funny face on it." He almost choked on his tea, but set his cup down and started looking through the fridge and the cupboards for the elusive mayonnaise bottle. The first time, he had escaped with tinned milk, this time there seemed to be no way out.
Mycroft is nothing if not decisive in moments of crisis: he took out his phone and asked his driver to go to the nearest corner shop, delicatessen, supermarket, whatever, and get a bottle of mayonnaise.
Sure enough, in ten minutes the trusted employee was back with a squat glass bottle of fine olive oil and mustard original mayonnaise. Mycroft unscrewed the cap hastily after thanking his driver, and dolled out a generous amount on Willa's plate. She looked at it suspiciously, then sniffed it, finally tasted it with her little finger: Sherlock had taught her well!
"Uncle Mycroft, this isn't mayo, but it will have to do. Thanks!" and she dove into her food.
Mycroft almost took out his fine lawn cotton handkerchief kept in his trouser pocket to wipe the sweat he felt building on his brow.
After her tea, Willa was perfectly content to play checkers with him, and when she got bored, they moved on to Snakes and Ladders, even to Monopoly junior.
In the evening, both John and Sherlock returned, a healthy glow on their faces: "We solved it, Myckie, it was definitely a seven, but all the evidence pointed to the victim's previous partner, who mutilated him to remove some incriminating evidence the victim had had tattooed in invisible ink on his arms and legs, pertaining to a fiscal scam they had pulled off when they were in partnership. Lestrade was over the moon, and..." Sherlock suddenly stopped speaking, when he took in the look of his brother in shirtsleeves, tie loosened and vest unbuttoned. John, who had been walking right behind him cannoned into him.
"What's the matter? Has anything happened to Willa?" was the anxious query of her concerned godfather.
Willa's laughing face as she waived another Get out of Jail Free card, put their minds to rest.
"Sherlock, never, ever, call what you are doing The Work ever again. All the merit goes to Mary, John, Mrs Hudson and Nanny Barnes. This is worse than a G7 meeting with the Russians wanting in!" replied his frazzled older brother.

Chapter Text

"Frankly, I had my suspicions since day one, at the laughable restaurant scene, but now I have actual proof that you, Mary, are not a natural blonde."
Instead of directly replying to the consulting detective who currently had his head between her legs, Mary instead addressed her husband, whose head was between Sherlock's legs. "John, are you going to let such an insult go unpunished?"
John left off whatever he had been doing between Sherlock's legs to answer his wife, thereby earning a displeased grunt from the subject of his affections;"Wait, what?"
"Sherlock just offended my sensibilities and you seem unwilling to defend my virtue, husband!"
"I am not responsible for the great git's blind spots, Mary! For reasons only known to himself, he has seen fit to include you in his very select circle of intimate friends, and I am not in a position to argue, since your ingenious plot to get all three of us to join in the fun, so to speak, has left me speechless with admiration and mouth deep somewhere more private."
"Well, it's a good thing you don't have a gag reflex then," quipped Mary, even more intent than Sherlock on having the last word.
A little while later, when all three should have been dozing on a post-coital high, there was a knock at the door of Mary and John's bedroom.
The pair brought the duvet up to their chins, while Sherlock took a nose-dive under the conjugal bed.
"Yes?" Mary tried to sound as normal as possible under the circumstances.
"Dad and you have forgotten that it's my first day at school. I need to look nice! I can't find Uncle Sherlock, should I get in touch with Uncle Mycroft?" came a tiny voice from the other side of the door.
"God, no!" whispered Sherlock and slunk out of cover. "You two call her in here for some early morning cuddling and I shall make use of the bathroom meanwhile. Are all my clothes here?"
John jumped up to look, but could not locate Sherlock's pants.
"OK, we don't have time for pants, when you find them, put them in the wash and I shall pick them up next time. Meanwhile, I'm off to a quick shower and then I am dealing with her hair. Both of you have straight hair, I shall never fathom how she eneded up with curls like mine, only shoulder-length by now, which are a nightmare to untangle."
"Better you than me, mate; despite your legendary impatience, you have proven quite an expert dealing with Willa's hair."
"Thanks for nothing," Sherlock grumbled, as he disappeared into the bathroom with a handful of clothes.
About fifteen minutes later, a spruced-up, shaven and clean Sherlock walked into the Watsons' bedroom to retrieve a giggling Willa, whose father had obviously been tickling her, and they both went into the living room, where he used a wet comb that he dipped in a bowl of lukewarm water every so often, to tease Willa's unruly blonde curls into a suitable pigtail.
"Hurry up, Uncle Sherlock, or we shall be late!"
He could swear that were it genetically possible, she had inerited his mass of untameable curls, the ones he had to battle into shape every morning without using hair produce except Yardley's brillantine.
Finally satisfied with the result, godfather and goddaughter went into her parents' room.
"How do I look?" she asked.
"Good enough to eat, sweetiepie! Have a nice start to the year, I shall be there to pick you up when you finish." said John, the implied suggestion being that Uncle Sherlock would take her to school.
Cabs being rare in the suburb where Mary and John lived, Sherlock had already texted Mycroft, so a shiny black limousine was waiting for the pair outside to take them to Willa's school.
The unpleasant or pleasant surprise, depending on your viewpoint, was Uncle Mycroft in the back seat: Willa whooped with joy, Sherlock looked as if he had bitten into an especially sour lemon.
"What did you expect, brother mine, it's her first day at school, we shall send her off in style! By the way, was your dalliance satisfactory?"
"More than you can imagine, dear brother."
"And after all your exertions, you managed to plait her hair into a passable French braid! Bravo, liitle brother, you have stamina, at least!"
All the conversation having gone above Willa's head, as it should, she gave a careful sweep up her braid.

Chapter Text

Love is...when you are willing to lay down your life for the sake of your friends, whatever their shortcomings.
Love is...sensing the absolute trust a child puts on your shoulders when it places its hand in yours and holds it firmly.
Love is...when your family (including a long-nosed bat of a pesky older brother) does everything it can to keep you alive despite your self-destructive propensities.
Love is...when your best friend and his wife deem you worthy of being entrusted with the care and tutelage of their only child.
And so on, and so forth! But then, Sherlock, the self-styled 'sociopath', having the emotional awareness of a child himself, would not perceive the sentiment as such, especially since he has been schooled by a fearful Mycroft, that sentiment is always found on the weaker side, and Sherlock always wishes to be perceived as impenetrable, armoured in his logic, his superior mind and his conservative but effective attire.
Yet, even he has to admit that taking Willa to Regent's Park to view the swans in their pond and throw them some stale bread, or feeding the rather large carp in their little enclosure, produces an alien tightening in his chest.
At first, he put it down to the complications Mary's so-called surgical wound have produced over time, things he can never tax her with if he wants to keep the status quo: IVA malfunction and renal problems he deals with on his own and under the care of Mycroft's undoubtedly excellent medical advisers.
But the peculiar tightness persisted when he saw John laughingly swing Mary over his shoulder, like a caveman, and proceed to the safety of their bedroom, both a bit tipsy from the excellent Sauvignon blanc a grateful client of Sherlock's had delivered a crate of, and he had wanted to share the windfall with his friends.
And, most peculiarly of all, the same feeling bloomed when his mother, in one of her rare visits to London, asked him to take her to the NSY museum of notorious crimes, and not a musical monstrosity.
Finally, he had enough of this peculiar tightening in his chest, so he requested Mycroft to set him up to see the cardiologist of the discreet government facility which had had the task of patching him up both after Serbia and after he had unravelled the late Jim Moriarty's last spiderweb.
Mycroft, for reasons only he saw fit, decided that it was appropriate to accompany his younger brother to this consultation. So, it was that one morning the usual black limousine waited outside 221B for the first-floor tenant to emerge.
Needless to say, its view alone did nothing for Sherlock's already racing heart. But he gritted his teeth, opened the passenger door so violently that it almost rebounded on him, caught it in time and got in beside his brother.
"What in the name of all that's holy, are you doing here, Mycroft?"
"After Mrs Hudson reminded me so forcefully that family is all we have at the end during your escapade with Irene Adler, I decided that supervising your health was part of it." replied Mycroft placidly.
"Bollocks! You just want to see if the latest cardiological problem stems from my lapsing again despite all your surveillance, brother dear!"
"That, too, but I am primarily concerned with this effect you seem to be experiencing, this tightening around your heart, which peculiarly coincides with happy instances."
A younger, brasher Sherlock would have thrown a "Fuck off, Mycroft," in his brother's face; this older, sadder version, just stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and kept silent for the rest of the ride.
The whole tedious process included an ECK, an upper-body scan and good old-fashioned auscultation. But, in the end, the doctor was adamant: "There's nothing wrong with your heart, Mr Holmes, and if I may say so, you have recovered so well that it would be difficult to distinguish its working from that of a healthy forty-year-old's. Which, in my opinion, you are, despite what you have gone through. Keep up with your swimming and your single-stick practice, even your boxing, if your insidious smoking lets you. In fact, the only thing I would advise you to refrain from IS smoking."
Sherlock looked crestfallen: "But what about this peculiar tightening around my heart when I am around the people I care about?"
"Ah, Mister Holmes, welcome to the normal human feeling of love."

Chapter Text

If one had the sheer guts to ask one or the other brother Holmes how they felt about cuddling, the answer was bound to be a blank stare and sheer incomprehension.
Never let it be said that they had grown up in a cold, emotion-hostile family: quite the contrary, as Mrs Holmes had been quite adamant to give them plenty of social interaction, organising children's parties and other events at home and then preparatory school and public school as day students, so that they could meet other children and -hopefully- make friends. It had been an exercise in futility, since Mycroft whizzed to the top of the class and stayed there, becoming school prefect and completing his standard education at sixteen, being accepted at Cambridge to study political science, history and international relations two years earlier than normal, passing his tripos with disgusting ease, and getting his degree at a ridiculously young age, which had attracted the attention of an old friend of the family, who had recruited him into a very specialised part of the Civil Service, and the seven years younger Sherlock, who couldn't be bothered to learn Greek and Latin declension of verbs but could recite the periodic table of elements almost before he could spell, and who could use his acid tongue to keep any bullies at bay unless they ganged up on him, in which case, up to a point Mycroft could intervene and keep him safe.
At any rate, the sum total of any cuddles both the Holmes brothers had suffered through/enjoyed was one: the fierce hug DI Lestrade had given to Sherlock in the car park after the disastrous meeting with John and his intended.
All this changed with the coming of Willa into Sherlock's life. Like all children, she liked to be petted, held aloft, tickled to laughter and cuddled.
Being who he was, Sherlock realised very early on, that Willa liked to be held close, especially after having been fed, because then holding her across his chest and letting her assimilate her formula, often followed by rubbing soft circles on her back and burping her, she would calm down and simply relax into his arms.
Although the habit might have stopped once Willa was old enough to walk, she found another way to get her Uncle Sherlock to cuddle her: when it was time for bed, be it a mid-afternoon nap or a restful evening, she would simply totter on her short, chubby legs up to him and hold up her hands: Little Miss absolutely refused to totter up to her bedroom, she much preferred being carried there, never mind who was available.
Sherlock broached the subject to John and Mary when he ascertained her pattern of behaviour, but they looked at him as if he had grown another head: but of course she would want to cuddle, especially before bed time. Who wouldn't?

The sheer blank-faced amazement on Sherlock's face caused both parents to break out into gales of laughter.

Chapter Text

On a crisp morning during the first May Bank holiday, the Watson family bundled into their car, Mary driving, since John had to get out on Baker Str. and rouse the self-styled laziest man in shoe leather to come with them on a short excursion to the Sussex Downs.
Sherlock's alternating bursts of great energy and stamina with his melding with the sofa ones were legendary, but when John really wanted his friend and colleague to do something he found it in himself to bring Captain Dr Watson to the surface and get the great big sloth to do it. This was one instance where he couldn't possibly fail, as the success of the whole day, and thereby Willa's collection of happy memories depended on Uncle Sherlock getting a move-on!
Mary parked right in front of the flats, double yellow line be damned. This was important!
John got out of the car and opened the front door with his keys, ascending the stairs carefully, first so as not to disturb Mrs Hudson and second to try and surprise Sherlock. In the second, he failed miserably, once again: "John, if you think that I cannot recognise your breathing pattern as well as your gait, however stealthy you want to make it, you are sadly mistaken," came a bored response from the kitchen. Good, at least the git was up and dressed, carrying out Heaven knew what experiment.
"Sherlock, pack up your experiment and put it away for tomorrow. Today, you are needed on co-parenting duty! It's Willa's first May Bank holiday since she started school, and we plan to spend it all together. And if you are exceptionally good at it, in the evening, after we have all tucked her in, you can reap any reward you want from me and Mary."
"And what makes you think that such a stick-and-carrot approach would be more effective in persuading me to come than the simple mention of my goddaughter's need for some well-earned rest from the drudgery of repeating what she already knows at school?"
"Ah, whose fault is it that Willa can read, write, spell and do all four major calculations?"
"Really, John, I never thought you a Luddite, and Willa has an exceptionally receptive mind. Come to think of it, probably Mary's DNA contribution that. I shall have to file that thought and start compiling data on all three of you."
"Oi, are you calling me an idiot now?"
Certainly not, John, else I would not have chosen you as a flatmate ten years ago. But Willa is not simply the sum of your parts, she is an autonomous being..."
"An autonomous being who is getting fidgety in the car as we speak, because she wants her day in the sun and her Uncle Sherlock to share it with her. Get packing!"
"John, you should know better than to go all Captain Watson on me at any time of the day, or we shall not leave the flat!"
"I know you hate repeating yourself: well, here's the news: so do I! If you are very good, you can get your reward at the end of the day."
"Aye, aye, sir!" Sherlock put his slides away, powered off his microscope, went to the bathroom to freshen up a bit, came back out to put his suit jacket on, and presently both men were descending the stairs to exit the building. However, this time, they were intercepted by Mrs Hudson; "And where are you two bound in such haste?"
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, Mary has parked right outside with Willa in the back seat, no time for chatting," was john's reply.
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I am being dragged along to a May Bank Holiday revelry for the sake of my goddaughter," was Sherlock's reply.
"In that case, young man, could you bring back a May flower crown for me? I would appreciate the gesture."
"Certainly, Mrs Hudson." and with that they exited the building and got into the car, John in the co-driver's seat, Sherlock in the back with Willa.
Truth to tell, he enjoyed spending time with his goddaughter, but would only admit it under oath, a polygraph test or torture, whatever came first.
Before they had reached their destination, Sherlock and Willa had spend the time playing 'I spy', making it progressively difficult, as Mary was a much better driver than John, so things flew past at a great rate.
Once they reached Hastings, Mary drove to a little beach far from the pier, all of them got out to marvel at the sight, since it was a lovely point of the chalk cliffs being low enough to be climbable.
They played hide and seek in the tall grass, gathered wild berries, which were carefully examined by Sherlock before they were washed and included in their picnic, they drank Mary's cool, refreshing lemonade, they chased each other in the sand, with Sherlock and John having the advantage not only of length of stride but also of having had the foresight to remove shoes, socks and rolling up their trouser bottoms.
In the afternoon, as they were all lazing on the picnic blanket, Willa on top of Sherlock, sticking like a limpet and not showing any sign of letting off, he suggested visiting the local museum.
"Why, what's so important here, Uncle Sherlock?"
"This is the spot where William the Conqueror fought Harold and beat him, thereby earning his right to invade Britain. Mind you, it was the last successful invasion. Before him, Britain had been regularly invaded by the Romans, the AngloSaxons, the Vikings, you name it. They came for the valuable tin, they stayed because of the lush land. Speaking of which, you, Little Miss, deserve a crown!" Sherlock replied, and he started picking long, healthy grass stems and forming them into a crown, which he placed firmly on Willa's head.
Promptly, she took it off and examined it closer:"It's just grass, Uncle Sherlock!" The disappointment in her tone led him to another history lesson:"A grass crown was bestowed on a victorious general in Ancient Rome, by his subordinate officers in the field of battle. It was the highest accolade any Roman could receive! The dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla earned it in the Civil Wars, and kept it until it fell apart in his old age. He always deemed it a bringer of luck, and I honour you, Miss Willa Elizabeth Watson, for being so far ahead of your class that you get bored in it!" Sherlock replied with one of his genuine smiles that lit up his face.
"OK, genius, let's not forget Mrs Hudson's flower crown!"
"Aye,aye, Captain Watson, sir!" Sherlock quickly gathered a few late daffodils, poppies, daisies, rare primroses and wild jasmine, and created a flower crown with a bit of ivy for greenery. When Willa tried to get to the ivy, he firmly held her back. "Ivy is poisonous, I wouldn't want anything to happen on such a lovely day!"
When six o'clock came, Mary declared the outing officially over, so they packed everything shipshape and Bristol fashion, as Sherlock would have put it jokingly, got in the car and drove back to town.
Sherlock got off at Baker Str. to give Mrs Hudson her flower crown, and then all four of them drove to Islington, for a much more interesting night.
Willa had been so impressed with her grass crown, that she very reluctantly removed it for bath time, but once she had been safely tucked into bed, all adults took quick showers, the geyser not being very reliable when it came to hot water, and then retired to the master bedroom.
Sherlock had earned his reward, after all, even if it wasn't a flower crown!

Chapter Text

It was very close to the August Bank Holiday, when Sherlock completed a case for the last Fortnum & Mason heiress, involving the theft of her emerald and diamond necklace, a family heirloom valued at several hundreds of thousands of pounds. The indications all led to a very astute and agile smallish thief, who had managed to steal the necklace from the lady's boudoir after she had placed it in its Russian leather case but had not put it back in the family vault one floor down from her bedroom, nor had she asked her maid to do so.
At any rate, Sherlock was able to establish that the thief was not a dwarf or other Pygmy-like adult, but rather the maid's seven-year-old son, who held a grudge against Mrs Robinson; his mother and the lady had been best friends at school, but then his mother had eloped with a travelling circus trapeze artist. When her family disowned her, Mrs Robinson took pity on her old school friend and took her in, had her trained as a lady's maid and kept her and her little boy in a small apartment with its own bathroom, separated from her own bedroom by a light well. The small boy had used the ladder his mother used to hang or take down curtains, had placed it between the sill of his bedroom and that of Mrs Robinson, had traversed the light well despite the void below him, had opened the latch with a Swiss Army knife his mother had got him for his birthday, and had then used it to unclasp the catch of the case, remove the necklace and return to his bedroom. Nothing had been found during the police search the next day, because the little rascal had taken it with him in his rucksack and hidden it in a shady part of the wall of the back garden, where Sherlock distinguished the fresh application of grout between two bricks and had thus recovered the precious item. The boy was too young to prosecute, but Sherlock made a note of his name, anyway; young Maurice had potential!
As an upshot of this, hardly a four on his scale, but resolved because his mother was also one of Mrs Robinson's ex-school friends, he found himself with four premium tickets to the Ashton Court annual hot air balloon event running from August 10th to August 14th, near Bristol, with a special invitation to ride in the Fortnum & Mason balloon.
After depositing his substantial fee with his bank at its Baker Str. branch, he toyed with the tickets for a while, then sent a text to Mary: "In possession of four premium tickets for Bristol Balloon Festival, interested? SH"
"Willa will love this. Time and place? MW" came the answer almost immediately.
"Thursday 10th to Sunday 14th, Ashton Court Estate, SH"
"Shall inform John to put in a day's leave for both of us, hold on to your hat, MW"
"You know I hate the hat! SH"
"In a manner of speaking :-)) "
Thus it was that on the 10th of August a party of four boarded a first class carriage of the GWR with direction to Bristol. Willa was extremely proud to be carrying her own little bag, which she had wanted to buy in pink, raising cries of protest from both her father and her Uncle Sherlock, who had capitulated on purple. Her dad had even let her punch in her own ticket through the barrier, even if it meant a slight delay for those following them. And then she got a chocolate drink and a freshly baked Danish pastry to go with it.
The trip lasted about three and a half hours, and from Bristol to Ashton they took a rented car, although with all the people attending the event, Heaven knew where they would park, if the hotel car park was full. Sherlock had insisted on a Land Rover, just in case they might have to sleep in the car. In the event, they found a parking spot, and their rooms ready.
It turned out to be a memorable experience. With their premium tickets, Willa got free rides on the fairground equipment, usually dragging Mary from one to the next, while Sherlock and John went for long walks in the countryside. "It almost reminds me of ..." started John, with Sherlock finishing the sentence: "the dog one. Yes, but here there are no mysterious government labs and no possessed hounds, just plenty of fresh air and people from all over the world. There are reports of balloons coming from as far away as Thailand."
Due to the windy weather, there could be no ascends on Friday, and even Saturday morning looked a bit iffy.
This did not at all deter Willa from sampling different pastries and rock candy from the stalls around the lift-off campground. When finally the balloons got a chance to lift off on Saturday evening, it was a majestic sight. Willa's eyes grew rounder and rounder with each one going up. "Close your mouth, sweetheart, you may catch a fly," warned John his daughter.
But she was still too young to participate in the Night Glows event. Mary took her back to the hotel and put her to bed, stealing sight of the eving highlight of the fiesta from the window of their room, as dozens of balloons blasted their burners to the beat of a musical soundtrack written especially for the occasion, while Sherlock and John enjoyed a glass of whisky on site.
Sunday was their own big day, as they were going to become passengers of the Fortnum & Mason balloon themselves. And, as luck would have it, Uncle Mycroft and the Universe not interfering, their balloon was the first to rise among all the rest. Its traditional wicker basket was roomy and comfortable, and their pilot and his co-pilot were extremely capable and resourceful. John and Mary took numerous photographs, especially when they flew over Long Ashton, four miles west of Bristol, and they could see people sitting in their gardens and looking up in interest, waving as they passed.
When, eventually, it was time for touchdown, Willa seemed almost sad, "It was so wonderful, it felt like floating in space," she said wistfully.
"Ah, you are not the first to feel like this, dear heart. Humans have wanted to fly ever since Antiquity. In Greek mythology you will find Icarus and Daedalus, with their wings held together with wax, Phaethon, the son of the Sun, who took his father's chariot for a joyride and ended up falling out of the sky, then there was Leonardo daVinci and numerous inventors, including Joseph-Michel and Jacques-Etienne Montgolfier, who were the inventors of the first hot air balloons, Count von Zeppelin and many others, but only when humans understood the basic principles of aerodynamics and created machines heavier than birds' wings, like the Wright brothers, did humans actually manage to fly where and when they wanted."
"Sherlock, take a breath!" cried Mary. "You can remember all this and delete the Solar system?" marvelled John.
"Do shut up, both of you. Willa and I had a wonderful time," smiled Sherlock and then shook the pilot's and co-pilot's hands, in thanks for the aerial grandstand.
It was a very sleepy Willa who arrived in London in the evening of the 14th, but, at the same time, she couldn't wait for school to start, to be able to show off to all her classmates, about the wonderful balloons. She wasn't Sherlock's goddaughter for nothing, after all!

Chapter Text

On the subject of cooking, were two clearly defined camps: those who maintained that Mary couldn't boil an egg and Sherlock was more likely to poison them with his efforts, and those who had sampled both their cooking attempts and survived without after-effects.
In the case of Mary, especially, she had to keep her little family fed and healthy, so one of her favourite searches was for new and healthy recipes, while Sherlock regarded cooking as an extension of chemistry, in which he indulged when he couldn't be bothered with takeaway or dinner at a café or restaurant, even Angelo's.
Things came to head through Willa, however.
One evening, he was in the kitchen in 221B, when he heard her fairly stomping up the stairs, with the distinctive patterns of john and Mary's treads following behind. He got up to open the door, and she fairly stormed in.
"Uncle Sherlock, I need your help with a school experiment, an award for excellence depends on it!"
"Good evening, Sherlock, sorry for the intrusion, but your goddaughter seems to have combined her father's stubborn streak with your own in her character," said Mary, removing her daughter's coat and then her own and hanging them behind the door.
"What seems to be the matter?" he asked Willa point blanc.
"We have to demonstrate an exothermic and an endothermic reaction in the chemistry lab as part of a class project, and while I read the theory, I can't come up with anything worthwhile."
Sherlock extinguished the Bunsen burner, put away the yarns he had been experimenting on and turned his full attention on his goddaughter.
Knowing them both, John went into the kitchen, filled the kettle, took down Cadbury's Real Chocolate drink, some Twinnings Evening Brew teabags, brought out four mugs, put two lumps of sugar in one, drizzled a bit of honey in another and waited for the two to resolve the problem, while he located the milk in the fridge and checked that a) it hadn't expired, b) it wasn't currently being used as a culture for anything. Otherwise, it would have meant a tedious trip to the overnight supermarket to get some fresh one.
Sherlock sat in his chair and gestured for Willa to sit in John's old armchair. "So, tell me what you know."
"Well, an exothermic reaction releases energy in the form of heat, light or sound. It may occur spontaneously and results in a negative heat flow, as heat s lost to the surroundings. On the other hand, an endothermic reaction can't occur spontaneously, it needs work to be produced, and heat flows into the reaction."
"So far so good, I shan't confuse you with isothermic reactions just yet. Instead, I want you to go to Mrs Hudson and bring back any of her pot plants."
"Mind you thank her, dearest," reminded her John, just as the kettle boiled.
In a short while, Willa was back with a rather scraggly-looking aspidistra in one hand and a plate of almond Madeleine cookies in the other.
Her father handed her her malted chocolate drink, Sherlock got his tea with two sugars, Mary hers with the honey in it and John wrapped a hand round his plain milk tea mug.
"OK, what now?" asked Willa, snagging a Madeleine off the plate.
"What you are holding in your hand, together with the whole plant kingdom performs an exothermic reaction called photosynthesis," replied Sherlock, and scribbled the chemical formula on a notepad.
"I never though of that!" cried Willa.
"And mind not to eat any more cookies, because we shall be making stir-fried chicken with fried rice together," he continued, and got up from his chair, Willa following in his footsteps like a little shadow.
"Isn't it nice to unload all her schoolwork in his lap and relax?" asked Mary, sipping her tea.
"Not all," objected John:" she would never be able to write a fictional story in those literature classes, only scientific essays, and terse ones at that."
"Unlike my faithful blogger, I believe in facts, not romanticism, and evidence, not conjecture, as for brevity..."came the retort from the kitchen, where they had started on the broth for the chicken and Sherlock took down the wok, to start on the fried vegetables, while the rice was simmering in a pot.
With a flourish, he took the salt pot, and turned to Willa:"And now we shall season the food with table salt. In your lab, you should procure crystallic Natrium, and Chlorium, and ask the teacher to help you produce salt:that is an endothermic reaction."
Suddenly, he found himself grabbed by both lapels of his dressing gown and pulled to Willa's height, whereupon she planted two resounding kisses on his cheeks:"Uncle Sherlock, that was brilliant!"
"Oi, brat, that's my line," chided her fond father, and in half an hour all four of them were sitting around the kitchen table enjoying a very tasty meal.

Chapter Text

The case was a weird one: a nicely-dressed gentleman was found dead on a bench in a little square, practically facing an upmarket, almost famous jewellery store. He was wearing an old-fashioned camel-hair coat, light brown shoes to match and his suit would have been equally pristine if not for the trail of blood from the wound on his forehead which had bled profusely and marred his shirt collar and left lapel. It seemed like a killer shot from above, with a nice, interesting exit wound at the back. Also, the calibre seemed big enough to kill big game in an old-fashioned safari.
Given that the whole thing seemed like a contract kill, DI Lestrade had mobilised his best team to find out why someone would put out a contract on a harmless ex-accountant with a large carpet warehouse. After a day of amassing all available information, Lestrade decided to visit the widow, who lived in Islington, and because it was close to the Watsons, the automatic connection was made in his brain, to text Sherlock if he were interested.
Now, the thing with the consulting detective, whether he likes it or not, is that he shares his monomaniacal behaviour with Mycroft, calling himself a sociopath and Mycroft an OCD-sufferer, but the end result is the same: both won't let go of an idea if it enters their head, Mycroft usually relying on his sources of information and trusted staff to tease out an answer; Sherlock running around in circles or pacing up and down the living room of 221B like a bloodhound chasing an elusive scent, until all the evidence clicks together like a finished puzzle.
Therefore, what Lestrade and he learned from the even more frustrated widow, was that she had no idea the carpet firm had closed down five years ago, and her husband was no longer their employee: she even brought out his pay slips and his contributions to PAYE to show them, which dated up to last month.
"All right, that settles it, he must have had at least one accomplice, not to mention belonging to a band, but what was their purpose?"
Sherlock sat silent throughout the ride back from Islington, but once in NSY, he fairly hollered for Sally Donovan. The alarmed DS came out of her office, saw Sherlock with her boss, let out an infinitesimal sigh of relief, which was destined to be short-lived, however: "Sally, would you please fetch all the major jewellery shop thefts over the last five years?"
"Are you on to something, Sherlock? That's a massive pile of paperwork."
"Oh, don't bother with the evidence boxes, just pull up all major heists on my namesake's database."
"Yes, well, that's Sherlock II, you are still the prototype machine, so to speak."
"Enough with the snarking, you two, let's get those files. Although why you need them, beats me." complained the DI, as they stepped into his office, for Sally to access the database and bring up the relevant material.
"Now, all of you, distribute the victim's photograph to all relevant police HQs, since some seem to belong to Thames Valley and others to Oxford, and then have them re-examine the witnesses. The man was the lookout for the team. Who would suspect a well-dressed gentleman out on his lunch break, feeding the pigeons, or something equally banal, while he was making notes of the number of staff, the security measures, the employees' lunch breaks? Equally, who would suspect the same person taking his evening stroll and sitting down to relax a bit and watch how the alarm system was set, or who was left last, like a cleaning service and such. Who knows, you may be lucky enough to close several years' worth of cases in one go, Lestrade."
"Yes, well, that's all fine, but who killed him? Did the gang not want to share the loot with him any more?"
"Oh, Lestrade, you learnt nothing from the fake Dutch master painting case, did you? Let's go visit the site, no Anderson underfoot!"
Once back at the crime scene, Sherlock deployed both his magnifier glass and his iPhone's torch to look over everything behind the bench. To Lestrade, he seemed to be sorting through pebbles, until he stood up with his usual triumphant expression, holding aloft a dark brown spongy-looking rounded object, almost like a rough-hewn children's marbe;"Voila, there is your murder weapon, Lestrade! If you take it back to the forensic lab, and if they do a half-decent job of it, you will discover the victim's blood giving the little comet stone this brownish hue.
"Comet stone?" What comet?"
"Oh, all right, it is a tiny meteor stone from a comet which passed really close to our little pebble in the sky during the Leontidae falling star phenomenon. All those 'Twinkle, Twinkle Litlle Star' are actually the debris of comets passing really close to the Earth, entering the atmosphere and either burning up entirely, made of solidified gas, as most od them are, or falling like this little bugger here, to disappear among the vast amounts of silica on the surface. The victim simply had the enormous bad luck to be sitting in the trajectory of one of the solid ones. It was a hit from the sky, practically at light velocity. He never knew what hit him!"
"And how come you know so much about comets and stuff? John wrote in his blog that you had deleted the entire Solar system!"
""Even a thinking, unfeeling person has his pride, Lestrade: after that massive cock-up, I simply re-integrated astronomy into my brain: you saw how useful it was for saving the child, simply because I recalled the Planetarium presentation detail. And anyway, comets have become favourites of mine, since I discovered that what entranced me as a baby on the roof of our London residence, was the passing of Halley's comet. Did you know that Edmund Halley was the first who, by observing the transit of Mercury, that is, its passing over the Sun,predicted that astronomers of future generations would accurately measure the distance between theEarth and the Sun? Of course, it is the transit of Venus which set the benchmark for that, and it occurs twice in a twelve-year difference every hundred years or so. Imagine it, Lestrade, your children and Wila will be able to watch another Halley's Comet passing, and possibly another transit of Venus!"
"All right, and why was it so important with measuring the distance from the Earth to the Sun, anyway?"
"A German astronomer managed it in the nineteenth century, at 149,597,878 metres, more or less, and all astronomers call it the AU, or astronomical unit, becaue it gives the parallax angle to the Earth in all seasons, and is absolutely essential in counting in parsecs, which goes into the Einstanian theory of travelling faster than light, at the moment an impossibility, but one never knows. Anyway, the AU is of paramount importance, and as you saw yourself, it can even help solve apparent murders!"
"Oh, good Heavens, AU or not AU, I am grateful for your help, as always, though I'm not sure if I preferred the pre-astronomy-expert Sherlock. I don't suppose you can delete it again?"
"Sorry, Lestrade, it makes for a very good small-talk tool. See you on your next case!"

Chapter Text

"John, we need a terrarium!" cried Mary from the living room of their home as the overworked, tired Dr Watson literally stumbled into the hall.
After having divested himself of outer waterproof jacket and trousers and then removing his coat, since he persisted in bicycling to and from work even in the rain if it was a slight drizzle, like today, John came into the living room to encounter a clearly frazzled Mary.
"A terra-what?"
"A terrarium. Sherlock and Willa brought home from a suspect's pet-shop a whole family of geckos. We now have to house them because the children want to run an experiment on gecko feet ability to cling to any surface for any length of time."
"Wait a minute, which children? We have only got one, and the neighbours' son Asa is once more in rehab.." then the penny dropped: "Oh, sorry dearest, I am really tired today! You mean the six-foot boy and the seven-year old girl want to carry out an experiment. Did you, at least, get the more verbose of the two to explain what kind of experiment before I take the car and go hunting for a terrarium of appropriate size in the neighbourhood and its environs? How big are geckos, anyway?"
"Oh, they are really tiny, like ordinary house salamanders, and Willa explicitly stated that they need the terrarium to keep them contained, so they do not escape and mix with the ordinary breed, because of this ability of theirs to cling from the ceiling with one foot without fear of falling."
"Is he trying to turn our daughter into Spiderwoman, or something?" asked Dr Watson suspiciously.
"No, as I said, it's for an experiment. They want to calculate how long geckos can cling to a surface, what kind of surface, what happens if they have their feet cleaned and washed, what happens if they encounter obstacles, all that sort of thing."
"And how did this come about?" John was clearly playing for time before he headed out again in the rain, trying to get some warmth back into his body from the toasty warmth of their living room.
"As far as I coul ascertain from Willa, Dimmock and his team were on this case involving rare and illegal animal smuggling. Sherlock just happened to be available..."
"Read bored out of his wits, please continue!" mumbled John.
"So they eventually set up a stake-out based on what information Sherlock could glean from a persona visit to the pet shop, and the information form other sources, caught the lady red-handed as she received a seemingly innocuous UBS package containing twelve rhino horns, possibly for her Saudi peninsula clients, who consider its powder a potent aphrodisiac, and then Sherlock fairly jumped in the air like a child..."
"Yes, a forty-five-year-old-pre-schooler, I know the exact move, please continue."
"He told Willa that geckos are being researched for this particular ability, and his correspondence with Professors Eisner in the States and Gorb in Tuebingen, Germany, was at a good point, almost at the cusp of solving the gecko question."
"Wait a minute, he took Willa with him to a stake-out?"
"Yes, he came here, explained what it was all about, and she wanted to go to the pet shop so much that I gave permission."
"Mary, you really should curb your assassin instincts when it comes to Sherlock and Willa. Together, they are as unstable as the pre-Chernobyl uranium rod mass!" grumbled John.
"Well, are you going to get the terrarium? It is in all our best interests. Sherlock deemed that geckos need warmth and dark, so our bedroom has become their provisional habitat, with all of them wrapped up snuggly in our duvet."
"All right, all right, I am going. Did you locate the best shop on Google, at least?"
"Yes, it's on the main road as you turn left. Now, would you get a move-on?"
With a sigh, John heaved himself off the sofa, went to put on his coat, took his wallet, car and house keys and headed out into the rain to look for a terrarium.
The upside, of course, was that once the little beasties had been safely relocated and Willa put to bed for the night, he would get them all to take a communal bath in the jaccuzzi, and after the massively egotistical idiot relaxed enough, he would slip a cock ring on him, and then take a very long time pleasuring Mary. It would also be a very long time before he let Sherlock come. But, as usual, it would be followed by cuddles and spooning the lanky git on both sides.
Now, what were the directions, again?

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes is admittedly not a comfortable person to live or work with. If his brother Mycroft weren't so inured to secrecy that he doesn't let his left hand know what his right hand is doing, he could tell stories concerning Sherlock's infancy, toddlerhood and early childhood that would be the stuff of horror films. If DI Lestrade could be made drunk enough to let down his guard after a particularly satisfying result of his favourite football team, and the subject of the conversation turned to Sherlock, the other party to the conversation would get an earful. If Dr Watson were to be in the same pub at the same time and at the same level of inebriation, then the OTHER party to the conversation might need a therapist themselves.
But, in all this Sturm und Drang theatricality of the celebrated consulting detective there is a little old lady with a bad hip who would simply smile and get on with providing him with comfort in a myriad of ways.
Sherlock comes back from an all-night stakeout in the rain looking like an overgrown drowned cat, she hears his fumbling at the lock, gets up, puts on her robe, checks that the geyser is full and hot, checks that the boiler has heated the water properly on the night metre, and sets about preparing chicken broth, toasted bread, a pot of his favourite tea, cheese and crackers and a shot glass of his favourite vodka drink. When Sherlock emerges in the living room wrapped up in his favourite warm dressing gown, she is setting all this out for him to eat and drink while it is steaming hot and appetising. He will smile tiredly at her and mumble something that might be taken for a 'thank you', then eats every little scrap and heads off to bed, to sleep for the foreseeable future. Lestrade's paperwork can wait for next morning!
Sherlock locks himself out of the flat because he and John were in hot pursuit of a notorious cat-burglar, whom they finally caught by splitting up and cornering, with a magnificent tackle to the ground, when his keys must have fallen out of his trouser pocket, Mrs Hudson hears his ineffectual search though all his pockets, his mild swearing and his pacing up and down outside the front door, she gets out of bed, puts on a wrapper and wordlessly lets him in. He slings by her sheepishly, head down and not making eye contact, but next day, when he goes down to her flat to get her keys to have another set cut, she has his morning tea ready, together with his favourite, freshly-baked chocolate chip biscuits. On his return from the key-cutters, he will pick up a pot plant and wordlessly leave it on her lace-covered dining table, together with her bunch of keys.
Sherlock comes back covered in scratches after a particularly nasty wrangle with the murdering twenty-year-old wife of an octogenarian peer of the realm who got tired of waiting for her husband to die, Mrs Hudson, after her initial reaction of covering her mouth with her hands in horror at the sight of the still running blood, will take a few calming breaths, get out the first-aid kit and head for the upstairs bathroom, where Sherlock will be trying to clean himself up. If he's having trouble dealing with his clothes, she will help him out of them, like any mother undressing her child who got into a bad scuffle in the school break, then wash and disinfect each and every one of them, finally bandaging him up carefully. She will then go back down to prepare a tray of his favourite tea, not forgetting the biscuits, and this time, she will pat him on the back before going back down again.
Sherlock comes home in a massive distemper because his theory about the multiple assassin didn't work out, and starts torturing his violin instead of playing on it, Mrs Hudson will make sure her buds are close at hand and that her evening herbal soother is at twice its usual strength! Far be it from her to stop her famous lodger from indulging his bad temper while thinking! Of course, she behaves exactly the same when his bouts of insomnia strike, or both of them have had the misfortune of a late visit from Mycroft!
Sherlock has promised to look after Willa while her parents are on an important errand, but he gets a text message from Lestrade about a locked room murder that he cannot pass up, Mrs Hudson hears him stomping about upstairs, or even hears a heated conversation on his mobile claiming that he cannot possibly bring a child to a murder scene, she goes upstairs and asks Willa if she would like to help her in baking the scones and bread for them all. Willa loves playing with dough and flour generally, and there will be the odd-shaped creation in the final batch put in the oven to bake, but Sherlock's smile at Mrs Hudson could light up a good portion of London, in his gratitude!
And then DI Lestrade was wondering how Sherlock should remember how many times he had thrown the American agent who had dared lay a finger on Mrs Hudson out of the window. Honestly!

Chapter Text

It was Willa's first excursion with the Scouts, and because parents were gently dissuaded from accompanying the young cubs, Sherlock, John and Mary found themselves with some free time none of them had predicted or planned for.
For once, they were all at Baker Str. , enjoying their second cup of an excellent Assam brand, when the rolling stone of the trio piped up: "We should try an extreme sport for once in our lives. What would you prefer: bungee jumping or sky-diving?"
John almost choked on his mouthful of tea, while Mary spluttered in her cup.
"Are you daft? Of course you are, I forgot who I was talking to! Our entire lives together have been nothing but an extreme adventure after another. What would be the difference of adding a sporting element to them?" managed to reply a slightly reddening John Watson.
"Exactly that, the sporting element. We spent our time chasing criminals like foxhounds chasing foxes. It is a kind of sport, I grant you that, but it is not sport per se. Which one should we try?"
"Bungee jumping is out! I don't want to die of cardiac arrest, watching you jump off a tall edifice again, even tethered to very strong ropes. My daughter deserves to have her father live long enough to see her grow up to a young lady."
"Whereupon, you will terrorise every young man who comes within breathing distance of her. But we shall cross that bridge when we come to it." replied Mary.
"No, I shan't do any such thing, I shall simply let her Uncle Sherlock deduce them to within an inch of their lives. If they are acceptable, then I shall step in to have my own opinion of them, and then they may take her out on a date, following specific routes so they will be under the supervision of Uncle Mycroft's team at all times."
"Good grief, that's paranoid even for Mycroft!" exclaimed Mary.
"Good, it's settled then, we shall go sky-diving, I shall set up the training session with this instructor who owes me a favour, and we are off to a splendid sporting adventure."
No sooner said than done, the trio found themselves driving to Chatteris Airfield, in the North London area, Sherlock driving the Watsons' car for once, because he didn't need the GPS to find the place.
It took them a goodly hour to arrive, but it was still better than on weekdays, Saturday morning being less of a traffic nightmare.
Once at the centre, a fit, tall young man came to shake their hands, introducing himself as their instructor for the duration. Mr Pertwee actually enveloped Sherlock in a bear hug, which the latter more or less endured, much as he had done with Lestrade on the memorable evening of his return being made public. He really wasn't comfortable with such shows of affection, despite all his years with the Watsons.
First, they had to find acceptable equipment, special body suits, harnesses, belts, boots and all the necessary paraphernalia.
Finding ones to fit a tall, still underfed git, wasn't so easy, because the suits suitable for his height were for men with more body mass.
When all three of them got geared up, they had to spend thirty minutes each in the air tunnel, just to get used to their own buoyancy in an air current. After a pause, they went back in for a repeat performance. Fortunately, everything went well, nobody showed signs of dizziness or hyperventilation.
Then, Sherlock passed Mr Pertwee his card, a gesture that eluded John but not Mary's eagle eye. However, she made no comment at the time.
The decisive moment had come! They were secured in their parachutes, all straps and harnesses attached and double-checked, then they and their sky-diving partner got into the small jet engine, which took off immediately and rose to thousands of feet above the ground. Mary looked out of the window and felt slightly queasy at the thought that they would be getting back down there under their own steam, so to speak.
When the time came for the jump, Sherlock nodded to Mr Pertwee, who took John's hand, and led him to the plane's door hatch, which opened, letting them feel the rush of the wind in the cabin. John instinctively turned to look back at Mary and Sherlock, both of whom gave him a thumbs-up signal, and then both he and the instructor were out, in a tandem jump.
Sherlock then extended a hand to Mary, much as he had done to lead Janine onto the dance floor, and she backed away: "Trust me, Mary?"
His baritone had taken on a note of purring, like a big cat, she looked into his eyes, then took his proffered hand. "Yes, Sherlock, you are absolutely truthful about this. I trust you."
They were out of the door in no time, and then he did a half twist in mid-air and grabbed hold of both her hands. The rush of the air combined with the rush of adrenaline in her arteries, made her feel as if she were floating in space, not defying gravity. She felt herself laugh with exuberance, and could swear that behind his goggles and mask, Sherlock was also smiling.
The experience was indescribable in its intensity; not even her most difficult mission accomplished could compare to this! Exhilaration filled her every pore, she felt more alive than she had done in years, even before CIA, when she was still a student, young and trouble-free.
Once the time came to deploy their parachutes, she could see below that John and Mr Pertwee had made a safe landing, and John was laughing, clapping the other man on the shoulder and generally expressing his delight with the whole experience.
When the time came for them to land, Sherlock took off his mask and warned her to keep her legs as loose-limbed as possible. Despite the parachute, the landing was always hard on the calves and knees. "Remember Moriarty, Mary? It's not the fall, it's the landing," he whispered I her ear before putting his mask on again.
She followed his instructions to the letter, and they made a relatively soft landing, whereupon she ran to John and hugged him fiercely. It had been an amazing few minutes in the air.
They all went back to the centre's clubhouse for a celebratory drink, Mary and John accepting a half-bottle of bubbly, Sherlock, as the designated driver, clinking his glass of fizzy orangeade with them and the instructor.
"Sherlock, what was this all about? Their prices are rather hefty, I had a peek at the list. You paid almost six hundred pounds for this fancy of yours today." Mary whispered, once they were back at the flat, with Sherlock preparing pollo con tagliatelle for dinner, and she was helping by preparing the tomato sauce.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, today is the anniversary of my return to London, and therefore my breakup of John's first attempt at becoming engaged to you. And where would we all be without Willa in our lives?"
Impulsively, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. It was quite pleasant to see how he still blushed a bit.
"Oi, don't start the fun without me! Anyway, I am starving, what with all that fresh air up there.!"
"Yes, John," he got a stereo reply.

P.S. You didn't expect a seasonal story, I hope: it's called Autumn in Sherlockland!

Chapter Text

It is a truth unanimously accepted in the Watson household that if you leave godfather and goddaughter alone together, now that she has grown past the stage of needing a nanny and him being peremptorily drafted to act as an emergency babysitter, there is bound to be chaos, possible catastrophes and incidents that can traumatise children who have not been brought up in his nearly daily presence. But, as fate would have it, John had to deliver a paper at an international medical conference in Edinburgh that fateful weekend, and Mary was laid low by a particularly virulent gastric flu.

However, it was also the weekend when Willa would perform in the school's Halloween production, a very special Friday afternoon for her, as she was cast as one of a chorus of witches and had been practicing for nigh on a fortnight before, driving parents, neighbours, and Mrs Turner's married ones to distraction when she was at Baker Str. She had a pleasant, melodious voice, but she wasn't very good at keeping the tempo or synchronising, both absolute necessities in a chorus, so Uncle Sherlock had been drafted to help her overcome these obstacles. Together, they had made considerable progress, so that Willa felt her self-confidence growing and her musical proficiency improving.

Fearful of her daughter catching the flu as well, at the first signs, Mary had packed off Willa to Baker Str, where the little girl slept in John's old bedroom, something of a regular occurrence over the past year, since she had started school. Living in each other's pockets was perfectly acceptable at the Watson flat, but Mary and John still needed some quality time alone.

So, Sherlock made sure she was dressed in her second-best outfit (no sense in ruining her silk dress if there were going to be waterbombs and paintguns used later on in the evening), carefully packed her witch outfit, to be put on backstage, and he himself picked a suitable black suit with a white starched shirt. After making sure that all lights were off, all windows locked, his mobile, his wallet and his keys in his trouser pockets, Sherlock ushered Wila out of the flat, locked up behind himself and followed her downstairs, where Mrs Hudson was waiting for them, in a proper bridge evening outfit, complete with tiny hat with a minuscule veil, in her favourite mauve colour.

All three got into a cab and set out for Willa's school. Little did they know how haunted this performance would be!

Once they had arrived at the main entrance to the school, Sherlock stepped out after paying the driver, held his hand out to help his octogenarian not-housekeeper and his goddaughter out, and they all proceeded to the school's main hall, where its auditorium was located. Willa's form teacher was there to greet them, threw a scrutinising look over the little girl's outfit, relieved Sherlock of the witch clothes bag, and showed the two adults their seats, while she placed a firm guiding hand on Wila's shoulder. The girl threw an apprehensive glance back at them, whereupon Mrs Hudson held up both her thumbs, in a sign of encouragement.

In one of his rather chivalrous moods, Sherlock offered Mrs Hudson the better seat, but she flapped at his hands: "Nonsense, dear boy, with your long legs, you need the aisle seat, tiny little me can squeeze in the one next to you!"

While waiting for the performance to start, Sherlock noticed a somewhat unusual come-and-go among the teachers. On an impulse, he speed-dialled Mycroft and murmured an instruction to be on standby, watch the CCTV, whatever!

It transpired then, that the conductor had been taken ill with the same gastric flu as Mary and was puking his insides out in the school teachers' lavatory.

Entirely on impulse, something for which both himself and Mycroft would castigate the act, Sherlock left his seat, went to find the headmistress and demanded to see the scores for the performance. Music is music in any form, after all!

Once he was handed the score, he slid into the conductor's cubicle, straightened the music sheets out and took a deep breath; no real musician likes playing or conducting anything prima vista, but needs must, and he wasn't about to ruin his goddaughter's performance, especially since it had got so much better.

Thus, the performance began with a ballet of the youngest children capering about like overgrown pumpkins, and the school orchestra performed adequately enough. But Sherlock's problem was Willa's chorus, as it was taken straight from Verdi's Macbeth, and there was a piano solo he wasn't sure they could pull off without a hitch.

And suddenly, when the time came, out of nowhere, there came the melodious notes of the Berlioz version, smoothly, even professionally played. He heaved an internal sigh of relief and continued, with Willa singing clear and pure, in tempo and synchronicity.

When the performance was over, he and Mrs Hudson went to Willa to see what would happen next, when all breath was knocked out of him: Mycroft was standing backstage, a hint of a smile on his thin lips: "Well, brother mine, it wouldn't have done to let you shoulder the burden of all this tomfoolery on your own now, would it?"

There were three goldfish to stare at big brother Mycroft for a moment: Willa, Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. Whereupon, Willa declared:"As soon as Mum gets better, I am going to request a younger brother or sister, Uncle Mycroft, so I can be like you, one day."

The slight upward curve on Mycroft's lips could be attributed to the children's festivities, but not entirely.!

Chapter Text

It should have been a straightforward case for the Yard: an ex- prima ballerina of the French Opera who had subsequently married a wealthy futures investor had been found dead in her flat in Eton Grove, not a mile away from the Lewisham Metropolitan police station. Lyubov Darlington, known to her very limited circle as Lyuba, was a relic of the Kirov School of Ballet in Leningrad, before it reverted to its original name, once a world-famous performer, but since the death of her husband, also a recluse, living in her modest accommodation in the company of her trusted French maid, Martine Simon, and having her little household kept in shape by a Jack-of-all-trades, Bertrand Harel. Her flat was part of a semi-detached house, and it had its own entrance and back garden, with a miniscule front lawn.

The Lewisham police investigated the case, but it looked like a straightforward breaking-and-entering gone wrong, as the elderly woman had been found on her bed, in her nightclothes, strangled with a long scarlet scarf with a peculiar beaded fringe. The only peculiarity about the murder weapon, was that it seemed to have been cut with a pair of nail scissors after the act had been committed.

The DI put in charge of the affair was an old friend of DI Lestrade, ever since they had been PCs together. So, after the interviews of both the maid and Mr Harel had not led to a convincing explan of what happened, he called his friend to meet up for a beer and a chat. Since Lestrade didn't have anything overly serious to investigate, he accepted eagerly, and they met at a pub with the appropriate name One, just a few minutes' walk away from the Lewisham police station.

After exchanging the usual civilities, punching each other in the arm and then ordering a pint of the best dark ale brewed by the microbrewery servicing the establishment, they got down to talking shop. DI Hoskins was no procrastinator, so Lestrade found himself reading all the crime scene reports, as well as the statements of the two people most closely connected to the victim.

Taking a long draught of his excellent ale, Lestrade nibbled on some crisps and declared that it was definitely a case for Sherlock. "Sorry, what?" came the perplexed reply.

"Trust me on that, Rob, he has solved much more complicated cases for the Yard, Only, I need to get a copy of the case files for him. Can you run one up for me to take with me?"

"Be my guest! Take these, and I shall run a copy once I get back to the station. Who is he anyway?"

"An annoying know-it-all who has cleared my current and cold cases at an astonishing rate, and has kept me on the Commissioner's good books more times than I can count his inventing my first name!"

"Wait, if he cannot remember that your name is Greg, how does he do all the rest?"

"Don't ask, Rob, it's a magic trick," replied Lestrade, and took out his wallet to pay for the drinks, but was firmly prevented from doing so by his friend: "You come to help me, drinks are on the house, so to speak."

So, DI Lestrade left with the file under his arm, changing lines twice to reach Baker Str. station. From there, it was just a few minutes' walk to 221B, and he was welcomed by Mrs Hudson, who promised to bring up some of her cheesy nibbles for him and the boys.

"Wait, what? Is Dr Watson here as well?"

"Yes, love, he was kicked out of house and home yesterday, because Mary wanted to have Willa alone to give her the TALK, about growing up and all the rest."

"That's good, I suppose," he replied, going upstairs to Sherlock's flat. There, he found a bored genius strumming his violin like a lute, and Dr Watson typing laboriously on his laptop.

"Oh, hello, Gavin, I do hope you have a case for me, because John's hunt-and-peck style of typing is slowly but certainly driving me mad."

"Oi, I am a doctor, not your flipping typist!"

"Yes, John, and if this goes on much longer, I will gladly pay for you to take typing lessons. Anyway, Gerald, is that a case for me?"

"Yes, but I shan't give it to you until you call me by proper first name!" Lestrade replied, not a little miffed.

Sherlock looked wildly around, his eyes lighting on Dr Watson: "Don't expect any help from me, mate, not right after you insulted my typing style."

"Thanks for nothing, John. Next time we're all together, don't expect me to do you any favours at all. In fact, I might just bugger the living daylights out of you."

"Oh, finally you are catching up with the Bond films; just for that I might let you. His name is GREG! Can you shelve it somewhere in your mind palace? There should be room enough for a single given name, especially since you two have known each other for so long!"

Sherlock nodded his thanks to John and turned to Lestrade:"May I have the files, please, Greg?"

Lestrade hid a satisfied smirk as he handed over the police documentation.

Sherlock made a vague movement with his hand to indicate that Lestrade should sit down, and then turned to John: "I am sure that by now your hands are cramping. Be a good sport and make us all a nice cup of tea. Two sugars in mine, please."

Lestrade looked at John askance, as the latter got up from his seat at the worktable to go to the kitchen. The unspoken question was all about the last word the socially inept detective had uttered. John almost smirked and mouthed: "Mary can be a very good teacher," on his way to put the kettle on.

The only sound emanated from the kitchen, when the water had boiled. John rinsed out the teapot, then swilled some hot water in the mugs, finally steeping two bags of Sherlock's beloved Darjeeling in the pot and letting the brew acquire all the aroma and flavour it should. He prepared one mug with honey for himself, one with the requested sugar for Sherlock, and a plain one for Lestrade, who took both his coffee and tea straight.

Sherlock was so immersed in the files by the time the tea reached his side, that he barely noticed its presence, much less thanked John. DI Lestrade nodded his thanks and took a careful sip, so as not to get scalded, while John carried his own RAMC mug back to the worktable, once more picking up where he had left off updating his blog.

Time passed silently, while Sherlock was perusing the files. Suddenly, the usual epiphany struck: "Oh, oh, how could those idiots not have seen it? Lesrade, tell your friend he should observe, not just collect evidence!"

"All right, genius, what gives?" replied an unruffled DI, quite accustomed to such exhibitions by this time.

"She was found in her night clothes, but she was still wearing her makeup. All her life, especially on stage, she must have followed the rigorous rule of removing her makeup before going to bed, ergo, she was waiting for someone to join her. It could have been her maid, but she had a history of several love affairs and a successful marriage to a wealthy magnate. Arrest Mr Harel, and make him tell you where he has hidden the other end of the silk scarf. That was the motive, you see!"

"No, I don't! Sherlock, if you go all mysterious on me again, I shall not bring you another case for the rest of the year!"

"Lovely, then he will drive us all round the bend! Have pity on my daughter, at least, Greg!" complained John.

"Because, you dunderheads, the late Mrs Darlington still possessed an extremely valuable Indian sapphire, and she was very adroit with her hands. Look, if you look well, you can see that the scarf has a peculiar trim, which hides a small hidden pocket. Since the police found nothing at that end, it is the other end, which was removed by cutting it off with her nail scissors, which must hide the precious stone, and incidentally, the motive for her murder. Is that clear enough for you, Glen, or should I draw a picture, too?"

"No, no, I get it, thanks for all the help!" Lestrade downed the rest of his tea, nodded to both of them and made his way out of the flat.

"Now, speaking of typing courses, why don't you give me an exhibition of what your very agile violinist's fingers are capable of?" smirked John, and Sherlock uncurled himself from his chair, walking towards his blogger with a predatory air.