"Was I alright, Daddy?" Sherlock smiled at his daughter's question, glancing down at her as they walked along. Isla's breath came out in a cloud against the cool winter air and her eyes sparked with the reflections of the lights that hung brightly above them. He nodded.

"You were wonderful, Izzy."

"No dropped notes?" she asked, worry in her voice and she gripped the violin case in her hand tighter.

"Nope, no dropped notes at all," he replied as they continued walking down the street and rounded the corner towards Baker Street. "I'm very proud of you."

Isla beamed at his words, though that same beaming smile soon transformed into a puzzled crease of her brow and a pursing of her lips. She glanced back up at her father, pointing.

"Who's that lady? She's very pretty."

Sherlock followed his daughter's gesture and blinked. Last time he had seen Irene Adler, she had been on the brink of death in Karachi. Now she was stood on the doorstep of Baker Street, bidding a cheerful goodbye to Mrs Hudson. A gold wedding ring was wrapped around her finger. She turned, and her cheerfulness did not abide.

"Oh! It's you." Awfully casual way of greeting someone who had rescued her from certain death. She walked towards them, drawing a hand briefly through her hair. "Popped round and Mrs Hudson said you weren't in."

"Popped round?" Sherlock echoed. Irene raised an eyebrow.

"What, is it illegal to make a social call?"

"No."

"Are you a friend of my Daddy's?" Isla asked, quite bluntly, and Irene's gaze shifted downwards, tracing over Isla.

"I guess I am," she said, with some degree of amusement, and she crouched down. She stuck out a hand in greeting. "Irene Adler."

"Oh!" Isla cried, realisation in her voice and her eyes widened. "Daddy told me about you – he told me you faked your death."

"Ah, well," Irene said with a gentle laugh as her eyes lifted briefly back towards Sherlock, "that was back when I was a little – wilder."

"Oh. Fair enough. My Daddy's done lots of silly things in the past," she declared proudly, "haven't you Daddy?"

He smiled and squeezed his daughter's hand tighter.

"And what about your mummy?"

Oh. He really should've expected that kind of question, in retrospect.

Irene's gentle smile faded when her question was met with a hollow silence that echoed. Sherlock shifted but footsteps sounded as Mrs Hudson, apparently having seen this shift in mood, hurried forward. She smiled brightly at his daughter.

"Isla! You're back!" She stretched out her hand. "Did your music concert thing go well?"

"It went great! I didn't drop any notes!" Isla cried, and she, breaking off from her father, ran towards Mrs Hudson, who discreetly ushered her inside and closed the door, nodding as Isla continued to excitedly chatter. Irene straightened up.

"Wrong question?" she asked. Her voice was softer now. Gentler. Less inclined to tease. Thank God the woman was clever. Saved any extended explanations. Sherlock's jaw tightened and he folded his hands behind his back.

"Twelve years," he said crisply, "come next February."

Irene said nothing. Instead, it was with a sleek, small smile and a nod of her head that she turned on her heel and departed. Perhaps she thought it wise to remain silent, or perhaps she couldn't think of anything to say. Either way, he was glad for the quiet. After so many years, he'd had enough of sympathy and murmured remarks of sorry for your loss or she was so young. Such a pity had been another favourite of some.

Sherlock's footsteps towards and into Baker Street were heavy, though he had to admit, his heart lightened—it always did—when Isla skipped up to him and hugged him before she ran up the stairs, asking if she could have hot chocolate at bedtime.

"That's a birthday treat," he reminded her as he walked up the steps.

Neither of them had known at the time. How could they? None of the warning signs were present. Apparently that sometimes happened. Some women could cruise through the major portion of nine months and not have any of the usual symptoms. Stories in newspapers and gossip magazines screamed about how unusual it was, and how lovely it was to have this unexpected surprise drop into their laps.

Maybe the symptoms had started immediately after. He had no way of telling. All he knew was that, in the middle of the night, Mrs Hudson had knocked on his flat door and nervously told him that a man was outside, waiting for him.

"Elderly gentleman," was all that she'd described him as. The more naïve portion of him wondered what sort of case necessitated a client to turn up at almost three o'clock in the morning, but he knew. He knew from the moment he walked down the stairs of 221b, in nothing but a thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. It was the tail end of summer, cool in the days but still unerringly stifling in the evenings.

He opened the door, and he'd found him there. He greeted him with a single nod.

"Mr Holmes," he said lightly.

The elderly gentleman in question was different from their first encounter together. His features were more lined, but he had a relaxed edge to his demeanour. There was something else too, something akin to defeat. Behind him, there was a black car, windows tinted but Sherlock knew. He wasn't the enemy any longer. Just a messenger.

"Sorry, but who are you?" Mrs Hudson asked with friendly curiosity, waiting as she was at the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock swallowed a sigh. "A client?"

"Alphonse," he answered smoothly. "Pleased to meet you."

Sherlock turned to his landlady. When he spoke, his tone was cool.

"Get back inside your flat, Mrs Hudson."

There was only a moment's hesitation from the woman in question before she hurried back into her flat, locked the door and switched off her light.

Alphonse chuckled and stepped to the side, gesturing.

"If you would."

Sherlock took his coat off the hook and shrugged it on. Together, they walked towards the car. Baker Street was silent, the shrill sirens and chatter and drunken jeering that usually made up London's nightlife far away. A driver got out of the car and opened the passenger door. Alphonse discreetly reached into his pocket and brought out a crisp, white envelope.

"What is this?" Sherlock had asked, but no reply was given, save for a soft command to look inside the vehicle. He obeyed.

A bundle of pink blankets met him.

The baby in the travelling cot gurgled softly and stretched, its fingers straightening out and curling, its body squirming against the confines of the cot. Sherlock's fingers ripped at the envelope, opening it. A piece of paper, barely a scrap really, was what he'd found.

She's yours. Look after her well. S.

His fingers curled over the paper, and it crumpled in his palm.

"I assume every precaution has been taken."

"My daughter was very thorough."

Sherlock smiled. Of course she had been. "Always the brains."

He felt Isla's arms wrap tightly around his waist, and realised he'd been standing, frozen, in the doorway to the flat.

She must've noticed. She always did when he had these moments, these periods. (Like mother, like daughter.) He smiled and hugged her. His fingers smoothed over her hair. She'd inherited her mother's hair, but his eyes. Somehow, that had made the lie easier for people to swallow. After all, his eyes weren't common, but long brown hair? That was common as muck. It was beyond easy for people to think that in some grief-stricken drunken moment over the death of the woman he loved, he'd shared a bed with a stranger and had done the noble thing and taken custody of the child. (He couldn't lie to Mrs Hudson of course. Neither could he lie to John, or Mary. Lestrade was more observant that he first believed.)

Yes. It had made the lie so much easier, but it hadn't made it hurt less. There was only one thing that proved his comfort.

He wasn't allowed to love Molly Hooper, Molly Hooper didn't exist, she was just a name on a piece of paper, a tragically young death, but he had his daughter, Isla Holmes. He had a reminder of the life they could've lived.

That was good.