Chapter One

"Sherlock!" John protested. "Sherlock, you can't just accuse little old ladies of multiple murders when you know perfectly well that Mrs. Wimbledon is innocent!"

"Well why not?" Sherlock demanded.

John gave an exasperated sigh. Beneath that mass of luscious dark curls was a brilliant mind that never ceased to amaze him. And yet, it was amazing how little that mind seemed to know about human nature. It was a mind in a man that had been called coldhearted, egotistical, and some harsher words as well. But John knew better than the gossip shrouding the mysterious man.

Beneath those curls was a mind racing at the speed of light, a mind trying persistently to solve the mysteries of the universe with his remarkable sense of logic while simultaneously making Sherlock Holmes himself another of the universe's mysteries.

"Because it's not right," Lestrade said bluntly, exhausted with Sherlock's antics.

"Well it was effective," Sherlock said, dismissing the man's comment.

"Sherlock, remember what we talked about," John muttered in his companion's ear. His nose tickled as it brushed against the long hair.

Lavender. He had been using John's shampoo again. John rolled his eyes, unsurprised. It seemed Sherlock borrowed everything the doctor owned without regard to privacy or personal boundaries.

"Emotions, feelings," Sherlock began, waving his arms in a dramatic manner. "Ridiculousness of the simple mind!"

"You know, I'm still waiting for you to be one of the bodies I find at a crime scene," remarked Lestrade.

"Oh no, I'm simply too intelligent for the average killer."

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "Compassion, remember?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Yes, compassion. Right. 'Challenge yourself by trying to understand people on an emotional level.' It's not a challenge, John, it's a nuisance!"

"Well for it not being a challenge you sure seem to be struggling at it," John deadpanned.

Sherlock turned to him with cold blue eyes. "There is a murderer out there. I don't have time for feelings and compassion."

"No, you never do, do you?" John replied, cocking his head to the side in question. When Sherlock turned back to the dead body lying in a puddle of dried blood on the asphalt, John shook his head. He slipped under the police tape and walked away at a brisk pace, refusing to look back.

Lestrade shook his head. "Problems at home?" he asked, crouching down to inspect the gash on the victim's forehead.

Sherlock watched the retreating outline of Doctor John Watson, storming his way through the midday streets of London. "He doesn't approve of my methods. He's rather bitter lately."

"And you don't think it has anything to do with you I'm guessing?"

Sherlock looked down at Lestrade. "Why would it?" he asked, furrowing his forehead.

"You know, Sherlock, for a genius you can be quite dense."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called, throwing open the door. "Mrs. Hudson... oh shut up!"

"Sherlock, you can't tell a baby to shut up!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, appearing in the foyer with a crying infant in her arms. "She's tired. Or hungry. Or upset. Who knows? She's a baby."

"Mrs. Hudson, I need John and I can't think with all that noise!"

"I haven't seen John dear, but why don't you try playing that violin of yours to calm her down? You know how she likes it."

"I don't have time, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with unveiled annoyance. "I have dead bodies waiting for me."

"And you have a crying baby here for you," Mrs. Hudson said, passing off the child into his arms. "Now don't you roll your eyes at me, Sherlock. I'm your landlady, not your nanny."

"Besides," she mumbled, "I need a joint." Mrs. Hudson walked off, holding her head in one hand and leaving Sherlock uncomfortably bouncing the still screaming child in his arms.

Sherlock looked down at the scrunched red face. Beneath the squeezed-shut eyelids were startling blue eyes. Mary's eyes. Sherlock sighed with regret. He had promised, vowed, to protect all three of them. And he had tried so hard. But childbirth complications were not his area of expertise, despite having many areas of expertise. He couldn't save Mary. He could only try to console John in the best ways he knew how.

Regret was an unnatural feeling for Sherlock. Any form of emotion was rather unnatural for him. He separated himself from emotion and human connection, and was quite good at it too. But then this man named John Watson needed a roommate and a place to live, and Sherlock needed an assistant for his cases. And despite being a high-functioning sociopath, it hurt like hell to leave him behind for two years. And it hurt even more to return to a different man.

The John he had first met was a soldier who had seen enough dead bodies for a lifetime and craved the thrill of seeing more. He lived for the chaos, just like Sherlock, anxious to dive into the mysteries of London. But when he returned from his two-year stint at being dead, he returned to a different man. A different John Watson. This man was broken, held together by the woman he rested on, Mary. This man had seen another dead body too many and had finally snapped inside. He had spent too many days in the cemetery, looking at a secretly empty grave with glazed-over eyes and a sickening weight in his chest.

He had not returned to an eccentric John Watson. He had returned to a John Watson who had erased Sherlock Holmes from his mind to cope and move on, eventually into the arms of the future Mrs. Watson. And now it was reversed, with a dead body that wasn't coming back to life and a less compassionate person to lean on. Mary's death had been an inconvenience to Sherlock, but it was more than that. He genuinely missed her cheeky comments and the way she teased John. He even missed her emotional outbursts attributed to the hormonal imbalance that was part of pregnancy. Mostly he missed the way John smiled while she was still alive.

Sherlock rocked the baby in his arms as he took her upstairs to her cradle. With his foot he gently swayed the infant to the rhythm of the melancholy tune wailing from his violin, watching the fussing slow as he lulled her into sleep.

John slowed his pace five blocks from the crime scene as his frustration slowly dissipated. Sherlock Holmes was not human; he was a machine incapable of sorrow or emotional pain or the struggles of the human spirit that plagued John every day since his wife's death. Sometimes it was so easy to believe the stigma surrounding the man.

And yet, John knew him better than that. He saw the way his hands trembled at Mary's funeral even though he held a stoic face. He heard him wake with a groan at odd hours of the night to soothe the baby's cries, alternating shifts with John without a word. He was unbearable at times, many times, but he was also John's best friend.

And it was the insane Sherlock Holmes who kept John afloat. It was his joking humor that was first able to pull a smile from what had seemed to be a permanent frown. It was with the assistance of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson that he was able to care for his daughter. And this time it was Sherlock holding John together, keeping his mind occupied with case after case, keeping him away from the bottles that had been calling his name.

But dammit, lately it was hard to put up with Sherlock Holmes. Compassion. John had given a speech to him about compassion.

"Sherlock, I know you have your ways, but you must remember to be compassionate."

"Compassion. What does compassion have to do with anything?"

"Compassion is what people do, Sherlock. I don't know if anyone told you this before, but people have these things called feelings. And they're... No, don't you roll your eyes at me. Shut up and listen. People have feelings and they're important. Feelings and compassion were the difference between Mary putting a bullet through your brain and a bullet through your abdomen. And when you investigate on cases, remember some compassion, because a lot of the people we talk to have taken a bullet to the heart."

"If they had a bullet in their heart they'd be dead John, and despite rumors that I'm 'crazy,' I don't talk to dead people."

"Jesus, Sherlock, it's a bloody metaphor! Don't ruin the metaphor!"

Sherlock stared back at him for a while, his gaze unwavering. "John," he asked softly. "Did Mary put a bullet in your heart?"

John looked at his friend, speechless, until his vision started blurring and he left the room.

John had two bullet holes in his heart. One was scarred over after bleeding for two years. The other was fresh still. And what made the wound ache most was the struggle it took to hold his baby girl and look into those familiar blue eyes. It pained him to see Mary's features in the infant's face. Some days he could not hold her at all. Some days he stayed in bed, hidden under the covers, hiding from the reality of the world.

Those were the days that living with Sherlock was most difficult.

"Dammit, John, wake up!" Sherlock shoved the motionless mass beneath the covers. "John, Lucy just won't stop crying! You're her father! Bloody hell, get up and do something!"

Sherlock pulled the quilt away from John's face. Lifeless eyes peered out, staring mindlessly at nothing in particular. "John I have cases and clients and it's not my screaming baby!"

John continued to stare with glazed eyes.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called. "Sherlock, is John getting up?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, he's staying in bed like a bum and can't even take care of his own bloody daughter! For Christ's sake John, it's been four months now!" Sherlock stood by the bedside, waiting for a response that would not come before storming off to care for Lucy's needs.

"No John today?" Lestrade asked, looking up from the body on the ground to see Sherlock approach. "By the way, you're quite late."

Sherlock glided over to stand beside the crouched detective. "He won't get out of bed," he said bluntly. "The victim was a uniformed worker, by the looks of it bank teller. Approximately 27 years in age, and..."

"Hold, hold on a moment," Lestrade interrupted, holding up a hand. "He won't get out of bed?"

"Yes, and it made me quite late. I had to heat bottles and change diapers," replied Sherlock as he wrinkled his nose. "As I was saying..."

"Sherlock, doesn't that worry you?"

"Should it? It has become a regular habit."

"For Christ's sake Sherlock. Yes, it should concern you! The man won't get out of bed to care for his own daughter, that's a problem."

"So what do I do? You know I don't do well with anything involving... Feelings."

"Yeah, I've noticed. Does he see a bloody therapist?"

"No, he just... Lies there."

"Well dammit Sherlock, the man's wife died and he's clearly depressed! It doesn't take a genius to know that he should see a bloody therapist!"

Sherlock's gaze wandered to the distance. He stood still, contemplating Greg's words. "There was an affair with the boss. The wife did it," he announced. With that, he spun on his heel and raised his collar, leaving the scene.

"Where the hell are you going?" Lestrade called out.

"To find the best damn therapist in London," Sherlock replied without breaking stride or looking back.

13:18 - Get dressed.

13:24 - You're going out.

13:28 - John answer your damn phone

13:29 - You're going to a therapist.

13:30 - And not that awful one you saw before. Top notch this time.

13:35 - Dammit John I'm trying to be compassionate so answer the bloody phone.

Sherlock stared at the cell screen, waiting for a reply. It never came.

"John, John dear. I've noticed recently that some of my, ah, painkillers for my hip have gone missing. Do you know anything about that?" Mrs. Hudson scurried into his bedroom, expecting a reply.

John remained motionless in bed, staring at the wall. His phone beeped but he didn't even flinch.

"Oh John dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered. She sat on the edge of his bed and began stroking his silvered hair, looking more gray than silver recently. "I'll go fix you a cuppa," she said, bounding off towards the kitchen. "And you should really answer that phone of yours. It's nonstop ringing."

John made no movement.

Sherlock burst through the door of 221 Baker Street. "Oh Sherlock, you're just in time to change Lucy's diaper!" Mrs. Hudson piped.

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson! I'm quite busy at the moment."

"Well you look to me like you have time to change a diaper!" Sirens blared as a police car pulled up to the home. "Oh Sherlock, what is it now?" she sighed.

"I told you Mrs. Hudson, I'm busy!" he replied as he climbed the steps two at a time, followed by two officers.

They burst into John's bedroom. "There, see? The man needs help."

"I thought you said there was a man shot in the heart..." one of the officers said, scratching his head. "He looks alive to me."

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes upward. "It's a metaphor. Don't ruin the metaphor."

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" He turned to the two men standing awkwardly behind the detective. "Why the hell are you in my room?"

"Um, you don't happen to require medical assistance, do you sir?" one of the men asked uncomfortably.

"No, I do not," John growled. "Now get the hell out!"

The officers scampered out of the room as John turned to face Sherlock. "What the hell was that?"

"Compassion, John. You've been shot in the heart. You need assistance."

"Well I sure as hell don't need it from you!"

In the background Lucy started crying. "For Christ's sake Sherlock, look what you did now!"

"John I... I was only trying to help. Therapy. That's what you need."

"What I need is for you to stay the hell away from me!"

John's fits were clenched and quivering with anger. Sherlock lifted a brow in confusion. Maybe the ambulance had been somewhat extravagant, but John was fuming and looked ready to snap in a moment. The last time Sherlock saw him this upset, he was thrown to the ground in the middle of a restaurant as Mary tried to pull John off.

"I won't pretend to understand human emotions, but I do believe you are overreacting. And I'm the one who's supposed to overreact. We already established that pattern." Sherlock watched as John's face continued to redden with anger, still uncertain of the frustration. "Did I... miscalculate something?"

"Miscalculate?" John whispered, barely holding back the rage coursing through his blood. "You think this is a... miscalculation?" John looked away and took a deep, ragged breath before continuing. "Sherlock, do you have any idea why I want to murder you right now?"

"Murder me? I try to show this compassion you preach about and you want to murder me?"

"Yes, and you sure as hell make it sound more appealing each time you open your mouth."

"I..."

"No! Shut up! Do you remember when you pissed me off at that crime scene two weeks ago?"

"Well yes, I remember everything." And then you started staying in bed for periods at a time... he began calculating in his head.

"Well, I went to a café to relax, and you want to know what was delivered with my tea? This." John turned behind him and pulled a handwritten letter from beneath his pillowcase. With a shaking hand he gave it to Sherlock, who took it cautiously, studying John's face before lowering his gaze to read.

"Oh. Oh, fuck," Sherlock whispered. He looked up to see tears streaming from John's eyes.

"We killed her. We killed her Sherlock," John choked out, then began sobbing uncontrollably.