A/N: This fic is solely dedicated to Aleine Skyfire. After my first SH22 story on here, she asked me (read: pleaded nicely) if I'd do a proper Sherbeth fic. I agreed to do it, and then took literally ages to finally come up with this sketch. She is the reason this little drabble exists, so go thank her and read some of her stories because they are excellent.


Sherlock Holmes did not to fall in love.

He had successfully avoided that particular vice, as he called it, during his first lifetime.

Now it appears that he is destined to have a second chance at more than just life during this new century. As much as he was originally shocked, and somewhat loath to admit it; the surprisingly adept, and occasionally infuriating inspector from New Scotland Yard, and the sole reason for his return to this mortal coil, managed to get under his skin the way no woman from his former era had ever managed to do.

No, he did not expect it, but as was his nature; he was the first to acknowledge it; if only to himself.

Beth Lestrade did not expect to fall in love again.

When she was a girl, she had spent hours pouring over some old journals her grandfather had generously loaned to her, and had fallen, as her mother put it, head over heels for someone who had long since departed, someone who now only existed in several hundred sheets of musty, outdated paper and ink. She never expected to one day meet the object of her teenage infatuation, much less fall for him again, harder this time, with no chance of getting back on solid ground.


She never expected it, but she was the first one to do anything about it. That was just her nature.

Beth rushed up the 17 steps of 221B Baker street, making rather a lot of noise with her NSY issued boots as she did so, and pushed open the door. She had gotten into the bad habit of forgetting to knock. Part of the reason for this she blamed on Holmes himself. He almost always opened the door before she had even lifted her fist to the door.

Entering the room, she spotted Holmes curled up in his armchair reading on the new tablet that the Yard had provided for him (not without some prompting from Lestrade, obviously.).

He straightened himself upon seeing her, rising from his chair, and there was a warmth to his gaze that she had only just begun to notice. The sight of it caused her to grin unexpectedly, and a dark brow raised in a silent question.

The second quickly joined it as she strode purposefully across the room and grasped his lapels, pulling him down into her space.


Watson, who had heard the inspector enter, was in the process of making tea when he heard the choked noise of shock come from his human charge and flatmate. He started out of the kitchenette to ask what was wrong, and directly turned himself around and headed back to his charging station.

The tea, he decided, could wait.