How do you feel about children? -John

As soon as the text notification had sounded, Sherlock had all but pounced on his mobile, desperate for anything to alleviate the crushing boredom. Now, he stared at the text, trying to parse the subtler meanings that could spur someone to ask that sort of question, though really, there was no knowing what John really meant with any certainty until Sherlock had the chance to directly interrogate him.

Delightful, that. Even after a year, he still couldn't reliably predict what John might say or do. Of course, that was through no fault of Sherlock's. He was expert at reading people, and John was anything but.

So he rolled back onto the sofa and held the mobile over his head, thumbs flying over the keyboard as he composed an answer with barely any thought at all to ugly medieval rumours of demons eating the souls of children. To date, Sherlock had never seen anything like a soul in the kitchen, unless they were of the porcine variety. Specifically, bacon.

They're useful. -SH

When there was no immediate response, Sherlock sighed and let his arm flop over the edge of the sofa, mobile pinched between his fingertips. John was at the clinic today and Mrs. Hudson was over at Mrs. Turner's.

With nothing to drive back the boredom, Sherlock's mind went back to collapsing in on itself.

The sound of the front door opening was like one of those suitably apocalyptic sounds promising resurrection or revelation or... something. After determining John's origins to be celestial or infernal, Sherlock had done a bit of research — just enough to determine that people had no right to accuse him of insanity while valuing the literary contributions of long-dead writers who spoke of beasts with seven heads and boiling oceans full of krakens.

In any case, this was far more real. Sherlock moved for the first time in what felt like a century, his mind jolting out of its rusty, disused stasis, and rushed to the door, timing it perfectly to greet John —

Who was still downstairs?

Baffled, Sherlock took the stairs down two at a time, dressing gown billowing out in his wake. Spring's warmth filled the flat, so he hadn't bothered with a T-shirt, only pyjama bottoms.

"John?"

"Right. Yeah," John said, sounding a bit uncertain. He turned to bump the front door closed, both hands occupied with a cardboard box. "Give me a hand, will you?"

"You need to quit your job," Sherlock said, his vision doubling curiously as he looked at both the hallway walls and at the glorious, invisible wings extending through on either side, arching up from John's back. The spreading feathers spoke of John's relaxation and pleasure at being home, and the way his wings curved forward as though reaching for Sherlock betrayed the demon's affection.

"I'm not quitting my job to stay home and entertain you," John said, knowing exactly what Sherlock was thinking not through any infernal means but simply because he knew Sherlock. He pushed the cardboard box into Sherlock's hands, saying, "Careful with that."

The box was medium-sized but extremely light. The top flaps were folded over. As John removed his light jacket, Sherlock transferred the box to his left hand and reached for the flaps with his right.

Then the box honked.

Startled, he jumped and nearly dropped the box. "What —"

"Easy," John said soothingly to the box. He hung his coat on its hook and held out his hands to take the box back. "Sorry. They napped in the taxi here, but they're curious. I told them all about you."

"Them?"

With a reassuring smile, John pulled the box from Sherlock's hands and said, "They're a bit mucky. Let's get them cleaned up, shall we? I'll introduce you upstairs."

Nine ducklings can fit into a sink.

Sherlock's mind automatically catalogued all new inputs, and this one most definitely qualified as 'new'. He had no idea what to do with this fact; he couldn't imagine a duck-related homicide that would require an accurate count of ducklings-in-sinks.

Six were yellow. Three were dark brown and yellow.

He estimated there was room in the sink for another four ducklings, perhaps even five, though that was most likely getting into RSPCA territory. So, nine it is, he decided.

"It's temporary," John assured Sherlock as he scooped up one of the ducklings. It made a sound and flailed around wetly for a moment, though it didn't seem to be in distress. John smiled affectionately at it and set it back in the water, saying, "Fine, play more. But you're all getting dried off before dinner, or you'll wreck the carpets."

"We have temporary ducklings," Sherlock said, looking at his demon.

John's smile faded a bit, becoming tinged with worry. "Do you mind? One of the traffic wardens took the box of them from a bunch of kids. I persuaded everyone to let me have them. I can find their flock, but it'll take a day or two," he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Sherlock looked back down at the ducklings all paddling happily about in the sink full of water. Then he turned to his demon and leaned affectionately against John's shoulder, feeling the tingling warmth of an unseen wing, like tiny crackles of lightning crawling over his back. And suddenly, as if the touch of John's wing completed a circuit between his wing and the feather coiled around Sherlock's spine and Sherlock's brain, a brilliant idea came to the fore.

"We could keep them, you know," Sherlock said slyly.

"What? Does Mrs. Hudson even allow pets?"

"We could train them. They could be our eyes all through the city. Like my Homeless Network."

"What, your... Duck Network?" John asked, though he, too, was grinning now.

"Precisely!" Sherlock pressed his hand back into the insubstantial wing, knowing John would feel the touch on his feathers. Sure enough, John shivered. "They'd be our flock. Like our children."

"Children, huh?" John asked, sounding pleased.

"Is that a yes?"

"You're mad, you know — but so am I. So yes."John laughed and looked down at the little ducklings. "Right, then, kids. Who wants to be a spy?"