Author's note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction, so I obviously set myself the challenge of a case fic, based on the original ACD canon, with Sherlolly and Warston. All while trying to recover from the worst writer's block I have ever experienced! So – all comments gratefully received! I don't have a beta yet, so all mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, all these characters belong to someone else, I'm just writing laps here ;)

CHAPTER ONE

The woman on the street lifted her eyes to squint up, against the glaring Spring sunshine, at the open window above her. Standing hammering at the glossy black door was getting her nowhere, but she was getting desperate. And this address is where the desperate came, seeking solutions to their problems. Coming to a decision, she pushed open the door, stepping tentatively into the hallway with a call.

Thuds and bangs echoing down into the empty passageway where the woman stood. Clouds of dust rolling out of the open door, flung wide at the top of the short staircase. No chinks of light peeking round the doorway of 221A – had Mrs Hudson been driven to an earlier than usual application of her "soothers", or to fleeing her apartment altogether? Perfect! A slow smile spread over the woman's face, for the first time in days. Either there was a case in progress, or Sherlock was severely, acutely, ridiculously bored. But at nine months, one week and four days pregnant, and bored beyond belief after four interminable weeks of maternity leave, Mary Watson was in serious need of entertainment.

"Sherlock?" Heaving herself up the stairs, one tortuous step at a time, she called out again. With no reply forthcoming (not even a histrionic sigh), she walked straight in, fully expecting to see the consulting detective in full 'mind palace' mode, sifting through his mental data to find some crucial missing link. Slipping her hand down into her pocket to thumb at her phone, just in case (Mary was determined to win her on-going competition with John for "most ridiculous mind palace flailing", Mary was brought up short by the sight of Sherlock, sitting cross legged on the floor, sifting actual evidence into two piles, one considerably larger than the other.

"Ooh, what's the case? Looking for a missing person, based on their belongings? Motive for a murder? Perhaps…"

"You're slipping, Mary."

"Oh don't you try and Mycroft me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" Choosing to ignore the grimace that flitted across his face (either the comparison to his brother, or regret for disclosing his full name a few weeks earlier; more likely both), she continued, "I think they're all pretty viable options – pile of personal effects, sorting them into two groups based on some category you've got in mind. The small pile is obviously the one that is relevant to the problem. And it looks like pretty personal stuff, so you wouldn't have got it unless it was a serious case. The Met don't just give you the full contents of their evidence lockers, no matter how much you bully Greg… Lestrade. So?"

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock finally lifted his gaze to scrutinise her, his hands still continuously moving to split the items. "Fascinating…"

"Thank you. I think. No hang on, I'm not slipping then. Am I?"

"Wrong. You missed the one obvious point that clears up your whole little mystery. And you can't even see it. Obviously that article on increased spatial awareness and object recognition in gestating mice in unlikely to replicate its findings in a human model. Must remember to tell –"

"You did not just compare me unfavourably to a mouse, now did you Sherlock? I can shoot you again, you know!"

"Oh calm down. And your gun wouldn't fit in that ridiculously small bag without distorting the fabric overtly, so I think I'm safe." The wry twinkle in his eye had Mary squeezing out a huff of submission, and flopping gracelessly down onto the sofa.

"Just tell me."

"Well, Mrs Watson, as you so clearly put it, these objects are clearly personal, and I am sorting them by an internal dyadic criterion system. But what you somehow failed to notice, despite your increasing familiarity with the contents of 221B Baker Street over the past year, is that these effects are, in fact, mine.

Eyes wide, mouth agape, Mary found herself suitably lost for words. "You're … tidying?" she managed eventually, struggling to mentally apply such a mundane concept to the aquiline man in front of her.

"Tidying? Of course not, that's what I keep Mrs Hudson for. I am… sorting."

"Sorting? As in…"

"To stay …" and extending his arm to take in the more sizeable pile "…and to go. It has been brought to my attention that my future flatmate will not be as relaxed as John was amongst the detritus of many years of consultancy. And I had nothing better to do, solved all Lestrade's cases in ten minutes flat this morning. So – sorting."

Skimming over the pile, Mary was curious to see what had not made the cut of items Sherlock deemed worth keeping. And was met only with sheer practicality – roisin for his violin bow, a couple of leaves of sheet music, his spare pocket magnifier… No sentiment here, of course – maybe she was slipping, she mused. More interesting, therefore, were the discards. Particularly that small black velvet covered box, peeking one corner out from the bottom of the pile.

"Sherlock, what's in the box?" Fishing it out, causing a minor landslide of paper cuttings and old case photographs that hadn't found their way into his self maintained comprehensive archive of global crime, his long fingers flipped the lid and span the box round to face her. Displaying a medal, a white starburst resting on lacquered green laurel leaves, its red ribbon pinning it securely to the black satin background.

"What's that? Its not like any American or English military decoration I've ever come across…"

"Legion d'honneur. Chevalier of the something or other. I wasn't really listening – boring talk, the whole thing was in French and I had something quite… pressing… to commit to memory at the time."

"John never told me that one! And he promised he had told me all the really juicy ones that Mycroft banned from the blog. Ooh wait 'til I get my hands on him –"

"John didn't tell you about it because he was, in fact, not there. I told him that sex holiday was a mistake."