Sherlock hated taking the bus. As a mode of transport it had very few redeeming qualities, it being cramped, smelly and worst of all, full of other people. The underground was full of people too, but at least it was fast and more direct. The bus just meandered through the streets, stopping every hundred yards for a ridiculously long time while people fiddled in pockets looking for the correct change or hauled prams laden with over-stuffed shopping bags on and off the platform. He shifted restlessly in his seat, jostling John who was trying to read the paper.

"Will you please sit still?" John asked.

"I'm uncomfortable. There's not enough leg room," he grumbled, wriggling around and trying to cross his long legs. "We should have taken a cab."

"We tried. You must have hailed ten cabs between Baker Street and the bus stop and all were engaged. That's what happens when there's a tube strike."

Sherlock harrumphed. "Why today?"

"Oh I don't know, perhaps it's 'inconvenience Sherlock Holmes day'? You were the one who insisted we take this case, even though it's the far side of London, and you were the one who demanded Molly call her colleague and arrange to let you see the body today, so you're stuck with the bus!" John sighed as Sherlock continued to wriggle in his seat. "Look, would you like to read the newspaper?" He prepared to fold it and pass it to his friend.

"Read it. Nothing in it."

"Well why don't you... I don't know... count the red cars that pass, or make up sentences from car registration numbers?"

Sherlock glared at him. "I'm not a child, John."

"Really?" he muttered under his breath. "I bet holiday trips were an absolute joy for your parents when you and Mycroft were children."

Sherlock visibly shuddered. "Holidays have left me with a life-long horror of being trapped in an enclosed space with my brother. Nobody on this Earth could make such an ordeal of a game of I-Spy." John chuckled at the idea of the stuffy Mycroft Holmes ever having played such mundane children's games.

"I'll play with you." A high little voice piped. They both looked up to see a pair of bright green eyes peeking over the back of the seat in front. Two dark pigtails framed a freckled face that was now giving them both a gap-toothed grin.

"There you go... a playmate for you."

Sherlock scowled at the newcomer to the conversation. "What are you?" he asked rudely.

"I'm a girl. Fiona Annie Richmond-Turner. Pleased to meet you."

"Fart! F. A. R. T? Your initials spell 'fart'! What kind of parent does that to a child John? John! Are you listening?"

"I'm trying very hard not to." he sighed, hiding behind the newspaper. He hoped Sherlock or the child would grow tired of the conversation quickly so he could concentrate on the crossword.

"Is that your mother?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the woman sitting beside the child. "Does she not like you?"

"Sherlock..." warned John.

"She can't hear you cos she has music in her ears. She doesn't like it when I chatter on the bus, so she plays music. We always take the bus cos she doesn't like the underground train. That's where my Daddy died." There was no trace of unhappiness in her voice, just a child, stating the facts. She may as well have told him the grass was green, or his scarf was blue.

"Oh... Sorry."

"It's ok, he's in Heaven now."

John, knowing Sherlock as he did, sensed this wasn't a good topic of conversation. He attempted to nudge the other man's foot as a discreet means of attracting his attention, but an unfortunate bump in the road meant he connected with rather more force.

"Heaven doesn't ex... Ow! Why did you kick me John? That hurt."

"She's a child, Sherlock, and she lost someone close," he hissed, "keep your opinions on the afterlife to yourself, yes?"

Sherlock looked at the little girl who was still staring steadily back. What did little people believe about death? What they were told, he supposed. He recalled that his parents had talked about angels when he was a child and they broke the news of his grandfather's death. He'd been about the same age as this child. "Hmm. I'm sure your Daddy has his wings." He said awkwardly.

"Oh, he's not an angel. He was a bad man, so the angels are making sure he is punished."

"Rather brutal view for one so young, don't you think? Shouldn't he be in Hell if he's so bad?"

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John.

"What?"

"Can't you just play I-Spy or something...?"

"This is the most interesting conversation I've had all week."

"Maybe, but it's not really appropriate for a five year old."

"I'm six."

"Oh for gods sake! Six year old then."

"Mammy says Hell is on Earth, and Daddy disappeared off the face of the Earth, so he can't be in Hell."

So... Absent father then, probably not actually dead at all. Quite a harsh story to give a child though. He thought back to his own childhood - happily married parents, cozy family time - idyllic, if irritating. He felt a fleeting sadness for this odd little girl who talked of her supposedly dead father so matter-of-factly.

"Let's play I-spy. I'll go first."

"The youngest is supposed to go first. How old are you?"

"Um... Thirty-seven."

"That's a bigger number than six, so I go first."

"I always go first when I play..." he pouted.

"Really Sherlock? You're arguing with a child about whose turn it is in a game?"

"It's mine!" Sherlock and Fiona said together.

John shook his head. "I didn't expect to referee this kind of argument until my own kids were growing up. Fiona, you go first. Sherlock, shut up."

"Ok," she said brightly, looking around the bus. "I-Spy with my little eye... Something beginning with... W"

"Wuh? Oh, right... Um... Window?"

"Nope!"

"Wheels! Wipers? Watch? Water?"

She shook her head at each guess, grinning broadly. "Do you give up?" He nodded, impatiently. "It's 'wig'! That man in the blue coat is wearing one." Sherlock inspected the man seated a way down the bus and noted he was indeed wearing a toupee.

"Ok, my turn. I-spy something beginning with 'f'."

"Fiona?"

"Wrong!"

"I know... Freckles!"

Sherlock looked at her aghast. "How did you know?"

"Easy! When you were telling me the letter you were looking right at me and you didn't look around for other things. If it wasn't me, it had to be my freckles."

This child was fascinating - her observational skills were well developed and she was quite articulate. He wondered what else she had observed about the other passengers. He leaned forward and whispered "You notice quite a lot, don't you? Tell me what you think about the woman in the pink dress."

Fiona grinned and whispered back, "She has things in her bag that she isn't supposed to have. She keeps looking in it and then looking around to make sure no one is watching her. I think she stole something."

Sherlock leaned back letting out a slow breath. He'd noticed the woman's unease too, and had observed her discreetly removing the price tickets from a number of scarves that had been stuffed into her handbag. Shoplifter, for sure. If she had purchased the scarves they would have been in a store carrier bag, neatly folded by a shop assistant. She would have no need to be so secretive. "What about the boy in the hood?"

"He's sad. He's crying but pretending he isn't." Sherlock nodded. He'd seen the teenager huddled inside his hoodie, dashing a hand across his cheek to wipe away tears he thought he'd kept well hidden.

"What about my friend here?" John asked. He was listening intently now too, crossword forgotten in favour of this new puzzle.

"I think he's a doctor, or maybe a policeman."

"Why do you think Sherlock would be a policeman?"

"You said he wanted to see a body. Doctors look at bodies and so do policeman. Dead bodies anyway." Not only observant, she listened well too. "Are you a policeman?"

"No, I'm better than that, I'm a consulting detective. That means I tell the police who committed the crimes when they are too dumb to figure it out for themselves."

"Do you hunt for criminals? I want to be a criminal when I grow up, but not like Daddy. Mammy says he was rubbish at it. I'm going to be a Master Criminal, like my Uncle Jimmy. He was in the papers cos he broke into the tower where the Crown jewels were, but he didn't steal them. When I'm a master criminal I'm going to actually steal them and sell them for lots of money."

"Sherlock…?" John's unspoken question wavered between them. He stared at the young girl who chattered on about her wonderful Uncle Jimmy…

"Hang on a minute, back up," said John, recovering slightly. "What did you say about Uncle Jimmy just then…?" Sherlock was staring open-mouthed at the child, his brain clearly processing her excited babble.

"Mammy says he's dead too, but I'm not sure. It was in the paper that he died, but sometimes he comes to our house when I'm supposed to be asleep, and I don't think he's a ghost."

The bell rang to indicate the next stop and the bus slowed in response. The girl's mother stood and tugged at Fiona's hand. "I have to go now. Be seeing you. Bye!" She skipped off down the aisle watched by the two astonished men.

"Moriarty?" breathed John. "She's related to James Moriarty? And apparently, he's alive…?"

"Hmm… Maybe we will be seeing little 'fart' again someday…"