Part One
It was the boredom that caused the knife's song to whisper on the breeze to his ear. He leaned farther out the window and turned the handle slowly in his hand, letting the edge of the blade graze the fingers and palm of his other hand.
Down below 221B Baker Street, there was a hint of gold that caught Sherlock's keen gray eye. John made his way up to the stoop of the flat and Sherlock watched as he fumbled with his keys and disappeared through the door.
His mind on John's presence moving up the stairs, Sherlock's mind was brought very suddenly back to the knife in his hands as the blade slipped against his forefinger, causing a red gash to open there.
"Fine!" Sherlock hissed deliberately. "Wonderful! Ow."
Then John's footsteps could be heard in the room behind him and Sherlock found himself standing straight, head turned slightly in the direction of the dark figure that was his flat mate, tilted slightly away. His heart beat harder.
"Sherlock," John said in greeting.
He didn't answer. He was busy scrutinizing John's tone. Was he in a good mood? Was he annoyed about something? Was his voice friendly? John sighed.
Why was he sighing? What was he thinking? The longing to know what was going on in that inscrutable mind, so inscrutable, no matter how Sherlock acted to know all the inner workings of humanity, made his fingers twitch. He winced despite himself.
John knew why he was sighing.
He watched his friend's dark silhouette against the window, his dark hair rustling ever so softly in the evening's breeze. Friend. This man, who he pretended to know, but didn't. John sighed for wanting to know this man, even if he didn't know why. There was a kinship between them that neither of them could explain, but why was it so aggravating? AND exhausting?
Then John saw Sherlock's wince of pain. He strode forward so swiftly, Sherlock's breath deemed to dissipate from his lungs instantaneously. He cleared his throat. "What, what is it?"
"You're hurt," John said. "Here, let me have a look." John switched on the lamp beside them and the room was flooded with soft light. Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"It's nothing. I…"
John's eyes were soft as they looked at him. "Why do you even have a knife?" he asked, exasperatedly. "Seriously, Sherlock, find something constructive to do with yourself."
"For one thing," Sherlock began, "I have been studying the effects of microwaves on the human eyeball, which is quite constructive, not that you would find it interesting, which it is, and for another, I am going out. Now, excuse me."
Sherlock sidestepped John and strode from the room, wrapping his scarf about his neck, which he grabbed from the desk.
However, Sherlock was obstructed by some small thing in the doorway.
It was John's turn to clear his throat. He turned around slowly. "Uhm, Sherlock. This… is Sophie."
Sherlock looked down, an expression on his face that had rarely formed itself there. It may have been a mixture of shock, confusion, revulsion, curiosity. It could have been fear.
"She's my sister's ex's niece. Well, my sister's ex is her guardian. She needed someone to look after Sophie for a while. It was very short-notice. Sort of an emergency. I thought you'd… be okay with it?"
Sherlock was frozen. He didn't move, he did not speak. The frustration finally bubbled up within John and manifested itself in long-suppressed anger. "Actually, I don't give a damn if you're okay with it. This is half my flat and I am telling you that I am taking care of Sophie and she is staying here with us." He let out a ragged breath.
Without turning, Sherlock replied calmly, "She'll be staying with Mrs. Hudson."
With that, he maneuvered around the small figure in the doorway and disappeared with a swoosh of his coat.
For a moment, the flat was quiet. John sighed again and looked at the seven-year-old girl. He felt the weight of responsibility on him and it was hard to resist the urge to collapse into his chair and stare into space, moping.
However, he didn't. Instead, he moved over to Sophie and knelt down in front of her. There was a small black suitcase beside her. She held an elephant to her chest and the look in her eyes quickly changed from tender hurt to stubbornness as she looked at him. She didn't like him one bit.
Her eyes were like pools of water and her hair was the same shade as his, though silky and shinier. Her face was heart-shaped and her chin was a small, stubborn point below her rosebud mouth. She was Alice in Wonderland. John swept a hand through his hair, closing his tired eyes for a moment. "Sophie, you'll stay here, with me, alright? You won't be with old Mrs. Hudson. Don't pay any attention to Sherlock Holmes."
Sophie just stared at him with angry distaste. Finally, she said, "Call my auntie and tell her to bring me home, please."
"I'm sorry Sophie, I—"
"Call my auntie and tell her to bring me home… please."
"Soph—"
The girl crinkled up her nose and pursed her lips as if she smelled the fumes of Sherlock's microwaved eyeball, but it was her way of keeping the tears in. One slipped out, anyway.
What am I going to do? Wondered John Watson, hopelessly. He rummaged through the cupboards of the experiment-infested kitchen and finally returned to his "ex-niece-in-law" with a slice of buttered bread, wondering, wondering, wondering.
Part Two
John had finally gotten the girl to walk through the doorway into the flat and she was now sitting at the kitchen table, bread in hand, eyes roaming about the strange chemist instruments strewn around her.
"Really, it must've been some trauma as a kid. I mean, what else could it be? Are people actually born that way? No… I don't think so. Always deducing and puzzling and waiting for some mystery to get off on—" He was speaking really to the room at large, and did not expect the girl to grant attention to or grasp what he was saying.
"What does he do?" She asked.
Watson stopped pacing about and, eyes wide with alarm stammered, "Sh-sherlock Holmes is a… a consulting detective…"
"Oh." Sophie didn't glance at him once.
John looked around and shook himself a little. "Um, Sophie, what time do you normally go to bed?" he asked, tentatively.
"Whenever," Sophie responded, promptly.
"…How about in half an hour?"
She finally acknowledged him by looking John in the face. "In half an hour it will be eight o'clock. I'm not going to bed at eight o'clock."
With that, she slid her chair back from the table and stood. Clutching her elephant, Sophie walked over to the chairs and picked up the remote. She turned on the television and settled herself amongst a few pillows, as if they were her soft and feathery protective armour.
"Huh." Resigned, John sat beside her in his chair and held the Union Jack pillow to him as she held her stuffed animal.
Sherlock returned around one in the morning, slightly drunk, and nearly fell into John's arms.
"Where have you been?" John whispered, harshly. Sophie lay slumped in the chair, the telly murmuring softly, the volume low, her eyes closed and her breathing even.
"Having… some… fun…" Sherlock said, as if it were evident.
John steadied his flat mate by holding onto the tall man's shoulders, firmly. Sherlock tried to wrench away, but lost his balance and finally placed his hands on John's own shoulders.
"You can't go out and not tell me where you were going! What if… Moriarty…"
"I can't? I'm not allowed?"
Sherlock's eyes bore into John's and he suddenly felt very vulnerable. He did not know what to say. So he said nothing.
They silently watched each other for a minute. But then Sophie murmured in her sleep and Sherlock went rigid. His eyes cut to her small form in the chair amongst the pillows. They were dark and unreadable.
"Go to bed," John said. He turned away.
"Are… are you angry?"
He almost turned back around. Almost. "Got to bed, Sherlock."
Sherlock went to bed. He hid the hurt in his eyes. He hid so well.
Coward, John thought. He rubbed his eyes and dropped back into the chair beside Sophie's, turned the television off, and finally closed his eyes.
The morning was bright. Stiffly, John moaned and sat up in his chair. He soon found that Sophie was sitting close by his feet on the rug, her posture rigid, and her eyes following the billowing shape of Sherlock Holmes and he moved about the kitchen, rummaging for food.
Seeing that John was awake, Sherlock stopped moving and said to him, "We. Need. Eggs."
John nodded. "And bread. And milk."
Sherlock added, "And jam."
John's stomach growled.
"Sophie, have you eaten?" he asked the child by his feet. Eyes still on Sherlock, hesitantly, she shook her head.
"Well, then we're off to breakfast, Sherlock. Coming with?"
Sherlock paused once more, hand on the handle of a cupboard. He looked down at his feet, not meeting John's gaze. "Uh, no. I'm busy this morning."
"Not going to tell me what you're up to, then?" John asked.
Sherlock then looked up and into John's face, one of his fake contented smiled displayed on his own. "No," he said lightly.
John rolled his eyes. "Alright, then. Come along, Sophie."
The child reluctantly got up and followed John to the door. However, the side of Sophie's head seemed to be matted with chair head. Without thinking, John attempted to gently pat it down, but Sophie flinched away.
"S-sorry." Slowly, Sophie returned to his side, waiting to be led to her breakfast.
Once the man and child were out the door, Sherlock took a seat gingerly in John's chair, careful to avoid the mess of pillows upon the other, much less desirable one. Putting the tips of his fingers together, Sherlock gazed into the air about him, eyes narrowing. It was that time of day where he had a long think about how he was going to waste his time whilst the boredom gnawed at him.
Suddenly, as if with a sense of purpose, he rose from the chair and bounded out of the flat, down the stairs and to the door, which he opened and leaned through, watching as his blonde friend and his little blonde charge wove through the people on the street towards