BBC Sherlock-Babysitting

John Watson rubbed his eyes wearily and summoned the last fragments of his patience. "Alright, run it by me one more time. You did what?"

Sherlock Holmes was, for some unfathomable reason, sopping wet and covered in soap suds. His clothes were plastered to his skinny frame and he stood dripping in front of Watson's armchair, peering down at his friend through his sodden fringe. "I ran through a car wash." He explained, calmly, for the third time.

John sat back in his chair, his eyes closing despairingly, and asked the question again. "Why?"

"Chasing a suspect."

"And it didn't occur to you to go around the car wash instead of through it?" Then John remembered this was a guy who, on the very night he met him, got hit by a car whilst chasing a suspect. Sherlock may have been incredibly intelligent but the tunnel vision he got when a suspect was in sight often led him to do chronically stupid things. Rather like running through an operational car wash . . .

"Well, he went through it too. Just as well he did, he got soap in his eyes, couldn't see and ran headlong into a wall. It's how I caught up with him." Sherlock said, absent-mindedly wringing his scarf out, seemingly not caring that he was getting the floor, the rug and John's feet wet.

John shook his head hopelessly. "Look just . . . Go and have a shower or at least scrape the wax out of your hair and change your clothes, Mycroft will be here soon."

Sherlock's dark head perked up. "He will?"

"He texted me while you were out, said he was calling in a favour."

Sherlock grimaced. "That never ends well. Last time he did that, it resulted in me wading through a muddy field at three in the morning in the arse end of January, trying to find missing diplomatic documents."

"What the hell were they doing in the middle of a field?"

"A cow had eaten them."

"Oh . . . so you were . . . ?"

"Digging through cow shit to find a pen-drive? Yup, essentially. Either way . . ." Sherlock traipsed out of the room, his wet socks squelching quietly, leaving John to ponder just how precisely a cow had happened to eat a memory stick . . .

He returned five minutes later, still mildly damp from his shower but no longer smelling of WD-40 and clad in clean, dry clothes. He ambled into the front room, tugging a hand through his wet curls to separate them.

Mycroft had arrived early and was sat in Sherlock's armchair. He waved cheerfully at his baby brother who was stood in the doorway, eyes slitted with rage at the sight of an interloper in his territory. He glared briefly at John for allowing his brother to desecrate his chair but John kept staring distractedly at the sofa behind his friend.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said, cordially.

"So what do you want this time then?" Sherlock said, ignoring the greeting. "Trying to convince me to stick my arm up a cow's rectum in the name of Queen and country again?"

"Not exactly, but it's your sense of familial duty I'm appealing to, not your patriotism." Mycroft said.

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows in confusion, then his curiosity about John's fascination with the sofa got the better of him and he turned and looked. Then he groaned.

On the sofa was sat a young boy and girl, neither more than three years old, with neat dark hair and suspiciously tidy clothes for children so young. As a matter of fact they were sitting unnervingly still and were staring expressionlessly at their uncle.
Sherlock rounded on Mycroft. "No. Non. Niet. Nein. I am NOT babysitting the twins."

"Not just the twins." John said quietly. Sherlock turned and realised that he had somehow missed the fact that John was also cradling Sherlock's seven month old niece.

"The baby too! Mycroft-!" Sherlock began.

Mycroft held up a finger. "Let's take this discussion outside shall we." He said. "You'll be alright for a minute won't you John?"

John was unused to little children and opened his mouth to protest about being left alone with them, but then he saw the fury on Sherlock's face and realised getting him and Mycroft out of ear shot of the children was possibly a good idea. If they heard what Sherlock was doubtless planning on saying it may warp their fragile little minds.

The two men left but not before John heard Sherlock hiss "This is revenge for that time in Cornwall isn't it?"

"My dear baby brother, I'm sure I don't know what you mean . . ." Mycroft's voice faded out of earshot.

John became acutely aware of the twins staring at him and tried very hard not to think of the kid from The Omen. He forced a smile. "So," he said in a tone of fake joviality. "What are your names then?"

"Tristan." The little boy murmured, his aura of creepiness only marginally lessened slightly by the fact that he had a faint lisp.

"Isolde."

John stared at them. Naming your two children after doomed lovers is more than faintly creepy Mycroft . . . Not even half as creepy as the children themselves though who, John was willing to swear, had not blinked once since they came in. "And your sister?" He looked down at the soft, chubby little baby in his arms; she was pale with a head of wispy dark hair that was already starting to curl rebelliously. Chances are she would look a lot like her uncle when she grew up.  She was chewing on her fist and gazing up at John through eyes that were already fading from baby blue into a familiar grey green.

"Persephone." Isolde said.

"Oh . . . okay." Eclectic names must be a Holmes family tradition . . .

He heard raised voices from the hallway. "But I've got a case!" Sherlock was protesting.

"No, you don't Sherlock. I rang Lestrade."

"Lestrade doesn't know about it, the police aren't involved."

"You're lying."

"I'm not!"

"Sherlock, you are looking after the children for the day, stop trying to fight it."

"What's wrong with getting a proper babysitter, why me?!"

"It's short notice, I couldn't get anyone else."

"Ophelia?"

"Is in class. She will come and pick them up later."

"But-!"

"Sherlock, if you don't do this then I'm going to have to let mummy know about that time . . ." Here Mycroft's voice became low and the words indistinct no matter how badly John strained his ears.

Sherlock's reply however was more than audible. "You unfaithful, blackmailing, duplicitous received-pronunciation clod of butt fluff!"

The baby in John's arms wriggled slightly and John bounced her gently, suddenly remembering that the children could also hear every word. "So . . ." He repeated. "How old are you?"

"Three." The little girl said, her voice barely drowning out Sherlock's profuse cursing.

"And you're twins?"

"Non-identical." They chorused.

Well, duh . . . John thought, sarcastically. He was about to open his mouth to say more when the front door slammed and Sherlock stomped angrily back into the room, bearing a little sheet of paper in his hand. To judge by his foul expression, John deduced that he had been unable to convince Mycroft of the folly in leaving him and Sherlock to babysit.

He rounded on the children on the sofa. "Your 'Daddy'," he said, heaping sarcasm on the second word. "Informs me that you aren't allowed-" Here he began to read aloud from the list. "Television, toys made out of plastic, sugar, e-numbers, dairy or music other than the classics."

"Yes." The two children said obediently.

Sherlock stared at them. "How do you fancy helping me test how quickly this list burns up?"

"Sherlock!" John said.

Sherlock sighed in disgust then he flicked on the TV. "Here, watch that for a minute, I need to talk to John. And Persephone-" He nodded to the baby in John's arms. "Will be needing a bottle soon."

"I thought Mycroft said no telly?" John said, quietly, as he got to the feet and followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

"It's CBeebies John! It's not like I'm digging out your porn collection!"

"Sherlock!" John hissed, not wanting Tristan and Isolde to hear his friend's words.

"Oh calm down." Sherlock said, flicking on the kettle and rummaging around in a bag that Mycroft had left, digging out a bottle and some milk formula. "Mycroft's paranoid, I seriously doubt . . ." He stuck his head around so he could view the TV. " . . . 'Timmy Time' is going to turn them into psychopathic axe murderers."

"Why's he so over the top anyway?" John said, rearranging the baby in his arms who had begun to gurgle quietly to herself.

"They raised Ophelia normally and didn't like the results." Sherlock explained, tapping a picture of his eldest niece which was taped to the fridge along with a formula for creating cyanide and a post-it warning John not to drink the orange juice as it contained said cyanide. "She turned out too much like me, so they figured they'd try again and see if they could do it better the second and third time around."

The kettle clicked off and Sherlock waited to let it cool slightly, leaning against the counter and toying with the bottle. "To be honest, the end result creeps me out. They're freaky little buggers, oh stop flinching man, they can't hear us. So I do everything I can to subvert Mycroft's influence. It's good for them. Besides, I think I'm hardly corrupting their moral fibre if the worst thing I do is give them Smarties every now and then."

"Providing that is the worst you do." John muttered, not putting it beyond Sherlock to bring the children to crime scenes with him and teach them to analyse blood spatters. The baby in his arms shifted and whimpered, her pink face crumpling as tears welled up in her eyes. "Oop, someone's hungry. Is that bottle ready yet?"

Sherlock wasn't listening; he had already mixed up the bottle and was testing it on the inside of his wrist.

John watched in fascination as Sherlock retrieved the wailing Persephone from his arms and stuck the bottle in the little girl's mouth. She snuffled contentedly and let her eyes close, miniature hands reaching up to cup the bottle. John stood in silence for a few moments, just watching. "Whoa . . . That's a sight I never thought I'd see."He admitted, taking in the image of Holmes feeding a baby.

"Me with a baby?"

"You feeding a baby, and feeding it properly."

Sherlock looked at him sardonically. "You were expecting me to try and feed her via her ear?"

"Well seeing as how you seem to subsist purely on tea and coffee yeah, I do sometimes wonder if the concept of food and eating is alien to you."

"Digesting slows me down." Sherlock said vaguely, adjusting the baby in his arms so she was more comfortable. Then he looked up and caught John's surprised expression again. He sighed. "Look, stop gawping, this isn't the first time I've had to look after her. Whenever Mycroft can't get a babysitter and Ophelia is at class, I end up playing house. He's never brought the twins along too before though."

"They remind me of the kid from the Omen." John admitted.

"Don't know the reference but yeah, they are a bit creepy. Kids should talk; they should ask questions, they should bimble about and look at things. They shouldn't just sit and stare at you like they're waiting for instructions." Sherlock said, his tone mutinous. Not waiting for John to answer he ambled into the front room where the twins were gazing with fascination at the telly. John felt this was progress as at least now their faces had human expressions on them. "You guys like a drink?" He asked, his tone mild and unexpected after his seditious words in the kitchen. His ability to slip in and out of personas with lightning speed sometimes left John with whiplash, he was so effective at it.

The twins looked at each other. They seemed unsure of themselves now their familiar rules were being left by the wayside. Eventually Isolde looked up and said shyly: "Yes please."

"We've got some chocolate milkshake mix somewhere." John remembered. "Have you been experimenting on the milk again or is it usable?"

"No, it's fine." Sherlock said, removing the bottle from Persephone's mouth briefly to wipe her face before replacing it. "Just don't touch the orange juice."

"Daddy doesn't let us have milkshakes." Tristan said, uncertainly.

"I'm not daddy." Sherlock said, bluntly. "If you're going back in the kitchen John, can I have a cup of tea?"

"Yes Ma'am." John grumbled as he returned to the kitchen and attempted to find the milkshake mix. This was harder than it should have been as Sherlock had been practicing rigging and disarming booby traps on the cupboards during the week and there was always a chance that he had forgotten one. John had already had a close shave yesterday when he went looking for the pasta and had nearly had his eyes taken out by a bizarre contraption involving a barbeque fork on a spring.

When he returned five minutes later it was to find Sherlock Holmes sitting between the two children on the sofa, also gazing at the telly. "Who the hell names a duck, Yabba?" He demanded.

"Don't know." John answered, handing the two children their milkshakes and returning to fetch their tea.

"That sheep is planning something." Sherlock muttered as he retrieved the now empty bottle from Persephone's mouth and raised her to his shoulder to pat her back.

John rued the day he introduced Sherlock to television . . .

The silence was broken by an impressively loud belch from the baby. The two children turned and stared at their little sister. Sherlock pulled her away from his shoulder, looking at her in bewilderment. The girl merely chirruped happily and patted Sherlock's face with her tiny hands.

"Pardon you." Sherlock said, sitting her on his lap and letting her toy with his fingers.

"She burps louder than half the soldiers I knew." John admitted, gazing at the little figure tugging on Sherlock's thumb.

"Can she crawl yet?" Sherlock asked Tristan.

"Sort of. She gets on her knees but then she gets stuck." The boy said.

Sherlock reached out and thumbed a milk moustache from Tristan's top lip. "Sounds like her mother." He muttered.

John nearly sprayed his tea across the room. "SHERLOCK!"

"You haven't met her." Sherlock said, darkly.

John realised this was true, she had been absent even at the debacle that had been the Holmes family Christmas. John winced at the memory; he was still finding mashed potatoes in odd places every time he showered.

He heard Sherlock curse.

"What's wrong?"

"Would you mind taking her for a moment?" Sherlock held her out. John was about to protest when he spotted a creamy white splodge on Sherlock's shoulder. "Occupational hazard, I guess." Sherlock said, looking at it with only mild disgust. To be fair, you can hardly expect a man who dissected eyeballs for fun to be squeamish, John realised. "I'll be back in a moment."

The baby in John's arms yawned and cuddled closer to the doctor, instinctively seeking his body heat.

"C'Mon Percy." He said, getting to his feet. "Let's get you settled."

She protested as she was placed in her cool baby carrier but soon quietened when he wadded her blanket around her.

"How on earth do they do that?" John wondered, spotting that the little girl was already fast asleep as he pulled back. Then he caught sight of the clock on the wall "Sh-! Sugar!" He yelled, remembering just in time that there were children present.

"What?" Sherlock asked, sticking his head around the door, now sporting a vomit-free shirt.

"I'm going to be late for work!" He shouted, hurling himself from his chair and diving towards the door.

"Bye." Sherlock said drily, as he heard the door slam for the second time that day. He reclaimed his armchair and leant back, gazing at the children on the sofa. "How long do you reckon before he remembers it's Saturday and the surgery is closed?"

The two children giggled, realising John's stupidity.

"So . . ." Sherlock steepled his fingers together and looked over them at the children, as he often did when contemplating a case. " . . . Daddy doesn't let you do a lot of stuff?"

They shook their heads.

"What have you always wanted to do that Daddy wouldn't let you?"

The two children looked at each other nervously again.

"I'm serious, what do you want to do?"

There was a long pause.

"Make cake." Isolde finally said.

Sherlock remained utterly still for a moment, then his face broke into a wicked, crooked grin. "To the kitchen!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John returned an hour later, fighting the urge to bang his head against the wall. Sarah had found it hysterical when he rang her to ask why the surgery wasn't open. Stomping up the stairs he was relieved to hear laughter coming from the two children, they were human after all it seemed.

When he entered the kitchen however he got the shock of his life. Persephone was asleep in her carrier on the kitchen table, her blanket rising and falling with her peaceful breathing. Tristan and Isolde were stood on the kitchen chairs so they were tall enough to see onto the counter, Sherlock had conscientiously grabbed one of his and one of John's old shirts for the children to wear to protect their clothes. Sherlock on the other hand . . .

John couldn't help the grin spreading over his face. "That's Mrs Hudson's apron isn't it?" He asked, eying the rainbow polka-dotted garment.

"You went to work on a Saturday, don't laugh at me or you don't get any cake." Sherlock said, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had a clump of dough stuck to his nose.

"We didn't make cake, we made cookies!" Tristan cried, looking more animated than John had seen him so far that morning.

"Oh really?" Sherlock bent down and retrieved something from the oven with a magician-like flourish. "So what's this then?"

The children squealed in delight at this minor conjuring trick as Sherlock produced what, John had to admit, was a delicious smelling chocolate cake.

Openly however, John was more cynical. "You baked a cake?"

"And two dozen cookies." Sherlock corrected him, running his hand through his hair and leaving a white stripe of flour behind.

"It's not poisoned?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Yes!"

"No ground glass? Hemlock? Cyanide? You seem pretty fond of that one at the moment."

"John! I have not poisoned the damn cake!"

"Yes, but you also said the Christmas crackers were perfectly safe and you nearly blew your mother into the next county!" Plus it's a bit difficult to trust in your cooking when your hair looks like Sweeney Todd . . .

"Oh for the love of . . ." Sherlock grabbed a cookie and shoved it in his mouth whole. "Ah wu happeh nao?" He mumbled sarcastically around the biscuit.

"No, I'll give it a few minutes for the symptoms to appear before I set too much stock in your culinary abilities."

A small hand tugged on Sherlock's sleeve; wordlessly he retrieved two more cookies and handed them to the children.

"Caefuw." He warned. "Theyw hoh."

The twins stared at him, then they looked to John for a translation.

"They're hot, be careful." He supplied.

Sherlock swallowed. "Go on, go sit down. We'll clear up." He said, waving the children away.

John grabbed the tea towel but then dumped it when he realised it was covered in acid burns, he rummaged in a drawer and found a new one.

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye as he ran the water. "How badly did she laugh at you?"

"How did you . . . A lot. She thought it was hysterical."

Sherlock chuckled and dumped the washing in the sink.

"She also found the story of Christmas with your family quite fun. I told her a few weeks ago."

"Oh really?"

"She says she likes the sound of Ophelia."

Sherlock cast his mind back to Sarah beating seven shades of shit out of a gang member who was trying to kill him. Then he remembered the state Ophelia's ex-boyfriend had been after Sherlock's niece had caught him in bed with her friend. THEN he remembered the state the friend had been left in . . . "Yeah, I imagine she probably would."

"She was a trifle unnerved by the fact that half of your family owns handgun or shotgun licenses though."

"Oh no, none of them have licenses. Why do you think I've never let Lestrade meet any of them?"

John rolled his eyes and replaced the wooden spoons in the drawer.

Sherlock pulled the plug and wiped his damp hands on the apron before snagging another cookie. "Seeing as how neither me or the children are writhing on the floor in agony are you going to have some faith in my cooking and eat one of these or not?"

John took one and bit into it hesitantly. After a moment, his eyebrows quirked in surprise. "They're good."

"I'm not sure whether to be gratified or insulted by your surprise." Sherlock said, faintly sulkily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a handful and wandered into the front room to see if the twins wanted some more.

John heard him make a faint noise of surprise and stuck his head around the door. The twins were curled up on the sofa, deeply asleep, covered in cookie crumbs.

Sherlock peered briefly over his shoulder at the baby quietly snoring on the kitchen table and shook his head. "I swear I don't remember sleeping that much as a child." He stepped forward and carefully picked the twins up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to stick them in my room, they'll be more comfortable and we're less likely to wake them up." Sherlock explained, the twins lolling, loose-limbed in his arms.

"Is that safe?" John wondered aloud, not knowing what strange and arcane horrors lurked in Sherlock's bedroom.

"Oh yes, the goliath bird-eating spider is securely locked in his tank and the explosives are out of their reach."

John stared at his departing friend's back. Please Christ, tell me he was joking . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock returned to the front room and found John to be conspicuous by his absence. Looking around he saw a scribbled note explaining that he had had a text from Sarah to say that he had left his wallet at hers when he'd stayed around a few nights before. As Sherlock routinely paid for the shopping due to John's temperamental credit card, John did not use his wallet all that regularly and as such had failed to notice it was missing. Or so John had said in the note anyway . . .

Sherlock spotted his tea from earlier, he had forgotten about it and now he swigged it back, not bothered by the fact that it had long since gone cold. Then he remembered why he shouldn't do that.

*Ulp!*

"Oh crap." He muttered as his diaphragm spasmed. He stalked into the kitchen, frowning at his body's rebellion. He hated having the hiccups, it was difficult to think when your ribcage felt like it was dancing the Macarena, whatever the Macarena actually WAS Sherlock had no idea . . .

*Ulp!*

There was a giggle from the kitchen table.

Sherlock looked at the carrier. Persephone was awake and staring at him, her little arms and legs wriggling reflexively.

Sherlock looked at his niece, then his chest jerked and he hiccupped again. *Ulp!*

The baby let out a gurgling laugh and grinned.

"You mock me, Mademoiselle? *Ulp!*"

She squealed gleefully and reached for him.

Sherlock shook his head, smiling despite himself, and picked her up, cradling her to his chest. *Ulp!* He felt, rather than heard, her giggle again. "Well, you're easy to amuse . . ." *Ulp!*

John returned a while later to find Sherlock curled in his armchair with a book, hiccupping sporadically with a baby clinging to his chest and contemplatively gumming his scarf. She squeaked around the mouthful of wool and clapped her little hands as John entered.

"Sarah couldn't have just *Ulp!*dropped your wallet around here?" Sherlock said, looking sideways at him.

"She was busy." John protested.

Sherlock looked his friend up and down. "Obviously."

"Sherlock, whatever you're implying-"

"I'm not implying *Ulp!* anything, the hickey on your neck however . . ."

John's hand immediately fluttered to his throat and his eyes flickered to the mirror above the mantelpiece. There was nothing there.

The effect of Sherlock's low chuckle was ruined slightly when it was interrupted by another *Ulp!* Shortly followed by a shriek of laughter from the baby, who apparently found her uncle's predicament hilarious.

John glared at him.

"Oh don't look at me like that, if you didn't want *Ulp!* me to know you should have washed the smell of her perfume off before you came back."

John sniffed his arm. "I don't smell like her-" Then he realised Holmes was grinning evilly. "You're an arse."

"How can I resist *Ulp!* when you make it so easy?"

"Just out of curiosity, how did you know?"

"Your fly is undone."

John fumbled to rectify the situation just as there came a knock on the door. Whizzing his zip up, he answered it and was confronted with the familiar face of Detective Lestrade.

"Hey John, is he in?" Lestrade asked, wandering in. Then he spotted Sherlock. "Jesus! You've got a sprog!"

"She's not mine!" Sherlock said, exasperatedly. "She's my niece, I've *Ulp!* been asked to look after her."

"Fair enough, she's a sweet little thing anyway." Lestrade bent down and rubbed a finger over her soft, saliva-damp cheek. She gave him a toothless smile and grabbed at his hands. "What's her name?" He asked as she ineffectively chewed on his index finger.

"Persephone. Was there anything in *Ulp!* particular you wanted?" Sherlock said, brusquely.

"Yeah," Lestrade straightened up slightly. "We need you to come down the station, bloke's gone missing and all we've got to go on is his wallet. We need you to work your magic." Then he seemed to realise something. "Oh, you've got the hiccups."

"No shit." Sherlock grumbled. *Ulp!* There came a giggle from his lap and he looked down. "And you stop making fun of the afflicted." He looked up again and frowned, looking around. "Where's *Ulp!* John gon-"

"BOO!!"

Sherlock's noise as he flung himself from his chair was akin to a scalded cat.

John stood behind his chair, grinning smugly as his friend stood paralysed in the middle of the floor, shaking with adrenaline.

After a few long minutes of silence, broken only by Lestrade's badly stifled snickering, Sherlock rounded on John. "What the bloody hell was that for?!"

"What are you complaining about? Cured your hiccups didn't it?" John smirked, throwing himself into Sherlock's now unoccupied armchair.

"Yes! And nearly killed me and the baby!" Sherlock gestured to the trembling baby in his arms who was clutching tightly onto her uncle in a state of dumb-struck, shell-shocked silence.

After a long moment she snapped out of her catatonia and raised her little dark-haired head and looked at her uncle. "Ngeh?" She whimpered, tears surging to her eyes.

"Oh, now look what you've done . . ." Sherlock said, sourly, raising her to his shoulder and bouncing her gently as she began to cry.

John did at least have the good grace to look guilty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Okay, now this is just getting ridiculous." Lestrade mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Persephone had been screaming her lungs out now for close to forty five minutes. It had gotten so bad that it had woken up the twins who had sleepily traipsed through and were sat on the sofa with the detective, eying their baby sister blearily.

Sherlock was still pacing, the baby cradled in his arms being rocked in a mildly desperate fashion now. His curly hair was standing on end and his pale face was pinched. "I don't get it." He said, his voice pleading. "I've tried feeding her again, I've changed her, I don't think she's teething and she can't still be freaked from John's shouting. So why won't she stop crying?!"

"Sherlock, the case-" Lestrade began but Sherlock interrupted.

"Lestrade, I can't think with them, with this racket." Sherlock looked at the baby in his arms with no faint resentment, the wallet would probably turn out to mean nothing of importance but it could be and the hindrance was killing him.

"Can't you leave them here with John?"

"Tried that remember." Sherlock held Persephone away from him as though he was handing her over to someone else and the baby girl wailed even louder and clutched at his sleeves, only marginally quietening when Sherlock brought her back close to him. "John, can you grab my phone for me?"

John retrieved Sherlock's phone from his jacket pocket.

"You'll find Ophelia's number in my contacts list. Ring her and put it on speaker please."

The two twins brightened slightly at the mention of their big sister.

The phone rang for a few moments before a dopey and unexpectedly male voice answered. "Er yuh?"

"Huh?" John stared at the phone, bewildered but Sherlock seemed unfazed.

"Banjo, it's Sherlock, is Ophelia about?"

"Oh hey man, uh she's on stage. I'll try and get her off."

They heard the sound of Banjo walking.

"Ophelia's a drama student." Sherlock explained to the confused room at large. "Not sure about Banjo, think he's a professional pot head."

"Ophelia!" They heard Banjo bellow. "Your uncle's on the phone!"

"Epic!" They heard Ophelia reply.

"Whu-Wait! We're about to start your song!" A teacher-like voice interrupted.

"Start without me, I'll be there in a minute."

"But it's your solo!"

"I know! Look, just kick Jamie in the 'nads and he'll sing it instead of me this time, not that he needs the kick, his voice is high enough already." There was a faintly disgruntled but curiously girly 'Oi!' from the back of the room.

"Is that your creepy hot uncle?" A young female voice, not Ophelia's cut in. Sherlock froze in his pacing and John and Lestrade gaped at the phone.

Sherlock? HOT?!

"Ew, Jenny, what have I told you about perving on my uncle?"

"He's fit, so sue me!"

"He looks about twelve, you cradle-snatcher!"

"I do?" Sherlock said, confused.

"A six feet tall gorgeous twelve year old!" The unseen Jenny protested.

"He looks like he hasn't grown into his feet yet." A previously unheard female voice interjected. "It's cute!"

"Yeah well you know what they say about the correlation between the size of a guys feet and the size of his-" Lestrade and John couldn't help snorting with laughter at the flush of embarrassment which surged over Sherlock's pale face.

"Oh GOD!" Ophelia shrieked. "Will you PLEASE wait until I'm gone before you start making cracks like that about my UNCLE! How am I meant to look him in the face now?!"

"It's not his face I'd be looking at . . ." There was a burst of laughter from Ophelia's classmates.

"Thanks for that Jenny." Ophelia said, grumpily, her voice much closer now than it had been. "Hey, Uncle Sherlock, how much of that did you hear?"

"More than I wanted to." Sherlock admitted.

"Then I can only apologise and assure you I feel the same way and that I rue the day that I let them see a photo of you. Never work with children, animals or drama students . . ."

"I look twelve?" Sherlock asked.

"Just a little bit yeah, it's the whole skinny, curly haired head-case thing. Anyway, what did you ring about?"

"Can't you hear that?"

"What, the crying? . . . Oh crap, dad's got you babysitting, hasn't he?"

"Yup, how do you make her stop?!"

"I'm guessing you've tried all the traditional methods?"

"Yup."

"Have you got your laptop on?"

"No but I can do so, why?"

"Go on YouTube and put some music on, she likes Seether."

"But that's heavy metal!" Lestrade protested.

"I know, she can't get enough of it. If that fails, try Rammstein or Symphony X. And will you guys just bugger off!" This last line was obviously directed to her classmates who were singing very loudly and very obviously.

"Honey honey, how he thrills me
Ah hah honey honey!
Honey honey, nearly kills me
Ah hah honey honey!" Sherlock rolled his eyes despairingly.

"You guys are nuts." Ophelia said, wearily. "I'll be around to pick the children up in about half an hour, Uncle Sherlock." There was a scuffling noise and a yelp from Ophelia.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The voice attributed to the unseen figure of Jenny was now wielding the phone.

"Yes?"

"Oh God, he's got a sexy voice too!" Jenny giggled. They heard noises of approval from most of the members of the class bar Ophelia who was somewhere in the background making loud and lurid threats about what would happen if she didn't get her bloody phone back now!

" . . . Thank you?" Sherlock said, fighting the urge to glare at Lestrade who was having silent hysterics on the sofa.

The assembled group was now singing 'Lay all your love on me.' Sherlock gritted his teeth and decided enough was enough.

"Miss Jenny, if you would kindly put me on speaker phone please?"

The timbre of the phone connection changed subtly and Sherlock heard some shushing and giggling.

"Hey, this is Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock took a deep breath. "As much as I appreciate the attention girls, I think Ophelia has omitted something important."

There was a silence, then a grumpy sounding Jenny answered. "Crap, you're gay aren't you? The best ones always are."

"Yup." Sherlock said. "You can speak to my boyfriend if you like." He winked at John who was making desperate 'No! No! Don't drag me into this ridiculous charade!' gestures at him.

Lestrade looked about ready to wet himself now; the twins were staring around the room in bewilderment at him finding such amusement in something that they didn't understand.

"No, it's fine. Thanks." The levity seemed to have gone from the atmosphere now.

"Good, then give my niece her phone back please."

There was a rattle as the phone was passed back. "Well, that worked." Ophelia was audibly smiling. "I'll see you in thirty minutes."

She hung up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Ophelia arrived it was to find a disgruntled trio of men and two three year olds watching a laughing baby bouncing herself up and down, clapping her hands from where she sat on the floor next to John's laptop.

"You're all still alive then." She grinned, swinging Persephone into her arms.

"Just." John groaned, fighting the urge to ask Sherlock for some of whatever illegal substances he had concealed about the flat, anything to take the edge off his headache.

Sherlock was a sprawl of long skinny limbs on the floor near the baby. He rolled his head to the side from where he had been staring up at the ceiling. "Tell your father, he owes me."

"Make sure you ask him for something nasty." Ophelia recommended, gathering up the children's effects with a dexterity found chiefly in those who have lose contact with children. "Oh hey, Lestrade." She said, giving the detective a quick finger wave. "C'Mon, you two." This was said with a large, fond smile to the twins who slid off the sofa to clutch onto the legs of her trousers. "Right, that's Tilly, Tom and Tiny all accounted for. What would you like for tea tonight? I could make Bolognese? Say buh-bye to Uncle Sherlock."

"Buh-bye Uncle Sherlock." The twins let go of their big sister briefly and ran over to hug the prone figure, in a display of affection that John would not have expected from the children who he had first seen that morning.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled and returned the hug. "See you next time, squirts."

"Right, c'mon then." Ophelia corralled the two children again. "Ten points to anyone who can sock-slide the length of the hall . . ." As she left little Persephone looked at her uncle on the floor and waved her little hands and let out a faint gurgle which, for all the world, looked like she was saying goodbye.

Sherlock gave a faint waggle of his fingers in return and she smiled gummily.

The three men sat there in silence for a long moment after they left, fighting a strangely anti-climatic feeling.

"So . . . To Scotland Yard?" Lestrade asked, hopefully.

"In a minute." Sherlock muttered, getting to his feet, unfolding his limbs like a bizarre human deck-chair. "I could do with a good murder to help me relax."

"At the minute it's only a missing person's case." Lestrade pointed out.

"It'll do." Sherlock yawned reaching for his phone as it began to ring. He looked at the name readout.

Mycroft.

"Oh what the bloody hell does he want now?" He growled, pressing accept. "What?"

"I've just received a call from Ophelia. Apparently the children are in one piece, if mildly hyper." Mycroft's tone was disapproving. "Did you give them sugar?"

"Maybe." Sherlock wished he'd given the twins more cookies now, just to piss off Mycroft.

"Well, seeing as how the day was a success, I need a baby-sitter next weekend . . . ?"

Five minutes later Lestrade sat with his head in his hands, fighting to control his blood pressure. "I did not just see any of that." He said, wearily. "I did not just see Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, throw a hairy fit and attack his phone. I did not just see him shoot said phone, I most definitely did NOT see the gun he shot it with which you should have had taken off you when you were discharged Dr. Watson, and I ABSOLUTELY did not see him stow it back in the safe afterwards."

"Good." Sherlock said, stepping over the mangled, sparking remains of his phone in the middle of the floor. "Then you didn't see that I had five copies of your police ID in the safe as well."

"Yeah, good thing." Lestrade said without thinking. Then his head snapped up. "Wait! WHAT?!"