A/N: Thank you for stopping by! I hope you all enjoy this little story. Lots of fluff with Sherlock and Baby Watson, and a good healthy dose of Warstan/JAM. Because who doesn't need that? ;) A lot of elements in here are based off of real events in my life, so I hope ya'll enjoy the little peek into my brain.

The song included in the narrative is Con Te Partiro by Andrea Bocelli. It's a beautiful song and I recommend it to you all not only in general, but also so you can know what it sounds like for the sake of the story. I also recommend you check out the translation as well - it's just precious and perfect for the characters in my opinion. :)

Also: one great big THANK YOU to my gorgeous beta, blueskydog! She has been instrumental in making this piece of work the quality that it is, and a privilege to chat with. Thanks darling for all your help!

Enjoy!

Sherlock burst into the Watsons' home, imperious coat billowing behind his lanky form, his shoes tapping arrogantly on the linoleum floors.

"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded loudly, giving the house a searching look.

"Sleeping, Sherlock. And I won't have you waking her up," Mary replied, more tersely than usual but still amiable, from where she sat at the breakfast table. A purple mug holding steaming tea was in her hand, and there were deep lines of weariness and stress on her face. Sherlock guessed that their daughter was tiring her out, since she'd been walking for a while now, and Sherlock knew from the times that her care had been shunted to him that little Marcie had quite a lot of energy.

"I'd listen to her." John came in the room behind Sherlock, and tiredly hung up his black haversack.

The ex-RAMC was irritable after being dragged over half the Greater London area in freezing weather after a full day of work by a certain consulting detective. The case had been wrapped up, at least on their end. Sherlock had gathered more than enough evidence for Lestrade to make the arrest and close the case with ease. Sherlock had no problem with this - while he didn't mind some adventure, he preferred to be involved in the brainwork end of the operation, and was more than happy to hand off the grunt work to others, as well as the credit.

"I'd like to at least look her over," Sherlock wheedled. He knew Mary couldn't hold out long, not with that expression. "Just to note any changes."

Mary just waved her hand in submission, clearly just wanting to be rid of the nagging.

"Sure, just don't wake her," Mary said. Amused surrender was on her face, but her tone was careless.

"Promise," Sherlock replied, and tossed his coat over a chair, and walked down the hall to the baby's room. Well, the 'baby' was about to turn two, but that's what everyone called her. Marcie spent a lot of time with her parents, but she also spent lots of days being babysat by Mrs. Hudson, and had even been brought along to a crime scene or two (even though Sherlock had nearly had his head ripped off afterward for it), where she was very popular with all the Yard. She was the typical ray of sunshine - adorable, and not just to her parents. Her cheeks were full, but not so big that she looked swollen; her hair was almost white, and she had a smile that almost literally lit up a room.

Sherlock pushed open the door to the dark room, the sounds of quiet murmuring coming from the kitchen, where husband and wife were talking. He was careful not to let the light from outside hit the cradle, where the girl of the hour was sleeping. Sherlock approached slowly, careful not to make any noise, and peered over the edge of the cradle.

Marcie was sleeping with a classic expression of peace on her face, sprawled on her side, with surprisingly thick locks of blonde hair spreading out like neural dendrons. Sherlock reached down and brushed a piece of hair away from her mouth, and pulled her blanket over her gently.

Sherlock was as shocked as anyone else at how well he took to the infant; when she was born, and John and Mary were still trying to find some semblance of stability in their relationship, Sherlock supposed he was drawn to her innocence and obliviousness to how tangled things had become between her parents. As time went on, the attachment only grew. It was bizarre, since as a rule Sherlock truly despised children, in the same way he despised humanity as a whole. Because while he was genuinely annoyed by the age group, they also intimidated him and made him severely uncomfortable. Of course, this child had been the exception, as her parents had been.

Little Marcie almost never cried - and she was generally very quiet. Even when she would coo, it wasn't in an ear-piercing shriek, but a calm, quiet voice, sensibly making observations. She was content with either being held or being left alone; she was fairly undemanding most of the time - and most importantly, she absolutely worshipped Sherlock. It had baffled the detective, since at first he would stare cluelessly at her, wondering what to do, but she seemed to love the face he was making and laughed every time he did. A lovely, bubbling laugh that was gentle on the ears. It reminded Sherlock so much of John that he couldn't help but like her.

He remembered one time Mrs. Hudson had been babysitting, but Sherlock had somehow been left with her for a few minutes while Mrs. Hudson took her 'herbal soothers' for the day.

Marcie had been sitting there on the ground, looking up at Sherlock curiously with her big, deep blue eyes. Sherlock had stared with his own aquamarine ones from where he was sitting in his armchair, legs crossed and fingers steepled under his chin. Then little Marcie giggled, and Sherlock almost blushed and glanced away, unsure what to do. After a while his eyes looked back at her, and she almost split a seam laughing, and fell over onto her side. The corner of his mouth turned up, and he moved himself from his chair and sat on the ground. Marcie eyed him eagerly and curiously, but soon she was bored with him and got up, and toddling towards the stairs.

"Marcie, you will stop right now," Sherlock commanded. The child in question turned around and giggled, and then waddled toward the stairwell with an even more alarming speed.

"Marcie!" Sherlock cried, quickly getting to his feet and snatching her up. Marcie, however, believed the whole thing to be the grandest game, and shrieked with laughter. A gentle laugh welled up from Sherlock's stomach unbidden, but he quickly bit down on it.

"I expect you to listen to me. You may not understand, but if you fall down the stairs you will hurt yourself very badly. These things," Sherlock explained, unable to stop grinning as he poked her head and legs, "are bones, and they can break. And I think if any of them did, your father would break the corresponding one of mine. I don't even want to think about what your mother would do to me."

Marcie, however, overlooked the intended solemnity of this statement and instead giggled. Sherlock sighed and put her down, but made sure he stayed in between her and the door. The little girl was content for all of two seconds before she got to her feet clumsily and laughed, performing a bumpy run to circumnavigate the obstacle of a consulting detective to the door.

"Hey!" Sherlock protested. He reached out quickly and caught her, and picked her up and put her back in the center of the room, the girl still laughing hysterically.

This process was repeated a several times before Sherlock started laughing as well. One time, he got to his knees and waited for her attempted escape - she started running around him to the left, but saw Sherlock already moving to intercept her, and went the other way.

"Think you're smart?" Sherlock said lowly, and sprang onto her, carefully tumbling and rolling with the baby gently held in his arms. She laughed so hard she was hiccuping now, and he finally came to a rest with her in his lap, giggling. He held her, as she stared up at him, eternally grinning but no longer laughing, thinking about the young human mind and the rate at which it absorbs information, as well as many other things. After a few minutes, he realized her eyes had closed, and her smile had gone slack. At that moment, he heard a step on the stair, and a 'Yoo-hoo!' that shattered the silence of the flat.

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed irritably, turning to glare at Mrs. Hudson, but it was too late - Marcie had already woken, blinking slowly, and grinned up at him.

"Great. Take her," Sherlock insisted, and picked her up and held her out to the landlady who was now standing beside him, wincing as he realized the baby had drooled all over him.

"Awww," Mrs. Hudson cooed, and took the bundle of joy happily.

"Disgusting," Sherlock had growled as he stalked off to change his suit.

It seemed impossible to dislike the girl - everywhere she went, she won the hearts of anyone who saw her smile, drawing a smile from them in return.

Sherlock shifted, pulled back to the current situation when he heard the voices in the kitchen get a little louder, with stress lacing the tones, though he couldn't make out what they were saying.

He sighed, hoping this wouldn't escalate into a row. He'd only been witness to one before, and that being a brief one - and they had both apologized afterward. It was something Sherlock appreciated, since he was certainly not interested in playing marriage counselor (again) or taking sides, and plus it was just plain awkward for everyone. He hated it when they fought, but he supposed it was inevitable. John and Mary weren't prone to fighting, and certainly not to shouting, but it was all too easy to take shots at each other when they were tired or frustrated, so it happened.

Unfortunately, even though Sherlock was fine with leaving now, having checked on Marcie, he was loathe to walk through the splash zone, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.

He was just starting to consider risking a dash to the door without his coat when the sounds had started to die down, when suddenly he heard John yell something, then a resounding bang. Though he couldn't know for sure, it sounded to Sherlock like John had slammed his fist into the table. He flinched hard, the sound making adrenaline fill him. Though he'd die before admitting it, an angry John scared the light of day out of him. This was why it was best Mary was married to John and not him.

Sherlock's stomach dropped when he saw the baby start shifting. He silently hoped that she was just shifting in her sleep, but two seconds later a pair of clear blue eyes were gazing up at him. Mary was going to kill him.

"Hello there," Sherlock greeted. Marcie cooed politely in response.

"Sherk," she said cordially, and she quickly rolled to a sitting position, and held her arms up. "Up," she suggested, smiling widely.

Little Marcie had only recently begun to speak, and even though Sherlock had repeatedly tried to get her to pronounce his name correctly, it was all for naught.

He spun the mobile above her, hoping it would distract her, but just then he heard Mary yelling. Again, he couldn't hear exact words, but he definitely heard his name in there. He ducked his head, feeling guilt spread in his chest.

He guessed why his name was being mentioned; even though Mary never said anything to him, she never would, he knew that she wanted John around more often, not running around having daft adventures with his old flatmate. John had already dwindled his visits down to a weekly basis, and sometimes went weeks at a time without accompanying Sherlock on cases, but Sherlock knew that in the past week he had taken up most of John's time, and Mary was likely not happy about it. John had other responsibilities now, and had no place solving crimes with a sociopathic virtuoso.

It was impossible to miss the shadow of fear and confusion that fell over Marcie's face; it made an odd and unfamiliar feeling tug at Sherlock's chest. When he head John start responding in the same decibel, Marcie's face wrinkled, and Sherlock knew what was coming. He braced himself for a shriek, but it never came.

Marcie dipped her head, and started to quietly cry, her face scrunched up in distress, hiccuping and snuffling with hardly a sound. Big, fat tears fell down over her ample cheeks.

Sherlock had had enough of this, and scooped her up gently into his arms. "Shush, love," he said quietly, holding her against his chest, a pale hand stroking her hair.

The yelling continued, and Sherlock paced back and forth in the small nursery, trying to console the little person in his arms.

Even though he still couldn't understand distinct words (which was partly because of the poor sound quality, partly because he was trying to tune the noise out), he figured they were taking all their cheap shots at each other. It was effortless to dredge up past grievances, to point out each other's faults. Neither Mary nor John were prone to grudges, but Sherlock was fairly sure that there were certain subjects that were always off limits, at least until times like these. Sherlock heard John invoke his name, and he could guess what he was reminding Mary of. Marcie's name was thrown by both husband and wife, as well as a few other colorful words that they would never say if their daughter was in the room.

"Guess it's we'll just have to soldier on together, eh?" he crooned to Marcie, who was still crying, although slightly louder now. He held to her tightly, feeling as if she was comforting him more than he was comforting her. He felt useless, unable to stop this, unable to help anyone. His stomach wouldn't stop turning, and a frown was etched onto his face. He was annoyed enough to start punching holes in the wall at this idiocy. Why couldn't they just deal with each other quietly and in a mature manner? Not that he was one to talk about such things.

They weren't letting up; they'd been at it for what seemed like hours, though Sherlock knew it was only minutes. He just wanted to stop hearing this. Even more so, he wanted his best friends' daughter to stop hearing this. He wondered at her silent cry; had this happened before? The thought made him angry, and he briefly considered storming out there and knocking their heads together before dismissing the idea. It would only make things worse; the last thing he wanted was to get sucked into their whirlpool of accusation and defensiveness.

Nonetheless, he would not stand for Marcie's suffering a minute longer. He racked his brain - what could he do? She had anchored her little chubby hands in his scarf, crying into it with wet sniffles and gasps. It was nothing short of heartbreaking.

Unbidden, Sherlock's mind drifted back to his childhood, when he was just six years old. Back then his curls were tighter and lighter, and he was nothing like the self-professed sociopath he was now. Sensitive, impressionable, innocent - a child.

In the next room, his parents were yelling at each other. Sherlock was blocking out the words, but he could still hear the angry, accusing tones. His father tended to be quieter and better composed, and his mother sounded like a tornado on steroids. They had never fought like this before; Sherlock couldn't recall a single time they had ever yelled at each other like this, sounding so unhappy.

It made no sense to his young mind, brilliant though it was. They weren't supposed to be like this. People who loved each other didn't act this way. He knew that other kids' parents fought and hit their children, and got divorced, and cheated. He knew that it happened, but those things had always been nothing but head knowledge, as real to him as the pictures he had seen of other countries. Sure, he knew, but he'd never been there. And this was all wrong. He could tell by looking at other kids at school that their parents were awful to each other. But not his parents. It was never supposed to be his parents.

He was on the couch, arms holding his knees close to his chest. His expression was blank but every now and then a tear would slip down his face. Mycroft, then thirteen, was next to him, and since Sherlock's eyes were closed he had no idea what Mycroft was doing, and he didn't much care at the moment. After a moment Sherlock glanced at his older brother, who was staring blankly at the opposite wall.

Mycroft's eyes suddenly moved to Sherlock, and the little boy tried to scrub away his tears.

"What did I tell you about crying, Sherlock?" the elder asked, his quiet voice an audible contrast to Holmes parents in the next room. His tone wasn't kind, but it wasn't coddling either.

"That it doesn't ever help anything," Sherlock replied, a bit grudgingly. "Unless you need to manipulate some - someone." He had started to smile in mischief until a loud shout caused him to flinch in the middle of his sentence, leaving him with a dismal expression.

Mycroft nodded, not smiling but still comforting. "When you cry, your body will actually release endorphins into your bloodstream."

"Endor - phins?"

"Hormones that will make you feel good."

"You said feelings are silly." Sherlock sniffled, but his eyes were more peaceful than before, his naturally curious mind being drawn to the information offered to him.

"Hence why I said crying is useless. I thought you might like to know that bit of trivia," Mycroft explained calmly, unruffled by the stormy atmosphere. "Did you know that in Ancient Greece, scientists thought that the seat of the soul was in the liver?"

"Seat of the soul?"

"In more sentimental culture, it's considered the heart. As in 'heartbreak', and loving people with your whole heart. Of course, science has proven that consciousness and memory takes place in the brain, but most people conveniently ignore that."

Sherlock giggled shakily, his eyes still glancing to the door where there wasn't any shouting per se, but still a tense and quick exchange. "I love you with all my liver," he whispered playfully, and giggled in earnest this time.

"Indeed. Actually, even though the heart is considered the symbolic resting place of the spirit, the endocrine system in general might be a better candidate for being responsible for emotion, if you don't want to choose the brain…"

Mycroft continued to feed Sherlock tidbits of information until their parents finally opened the doors, shamefaced to find their children listening, and apologized. Even though neither boy said anything, the couple repeatedly dissuaded unspoken fears, telling them that everything was alright, there was no reason to worry. Even though there was, clearly, Sherlock had been largely relieved, and only closed one eye in discomfort instead of complaining when his mother hugged and snuggled him.

But here and now, in Marcie's dark nursery room, he couldn't very well try and explain the existence of microscopic hairs in the cochlea which made hearing possible. His quiet footsteps on the carpet slowed as he remembered why Mycroft's special brand of comfort had worked wonders on him. It was individualized; Sherlock thrived on information and intellectual stimulation like a plant on sunlight. What did Marcie like, Marcie specifically?

Sherlock recalled one time when Marcie had had to stay the night (John and Mary were out on their one-year anniversary and Mrs. Hudson had been called upon as babysitter) and was missing her parents. She cried loudly, demanding to know where her mum and dad were. Sherlock had started to play his violin just to drown out the noise, but upon stopping he found the waling had finally ceased. Mrs. Hudson crept up the stairs and asked Sherlock to play his violin downstairs for a while; it had worked wonders, apparently.

Though he didn't have access to his violin now, he pursued a solution along the same lines - his voice was a perfectly suitable musical instrument, something John probably knew nothing about. He was happy for Marcie to be the first to know, although he would have preferred the revelation to occur under entirely different circumstances.

"Quando sono solo sogno all'orizzonte e mancan le parole…" The Italian words rumbled in his chest, but Marcie didn't seem to take notice, making him pause. Sherlock couldn't help but agree, it was hardly children's music; but unfortunately, this was the sort of music he listened to, and this was the best he could offer right now.

"Si lo so che non c'è luce, in una stanza quando manca il sole…" Sherlock murmured, still stroking her brow, but it seemed futile. "Se non ci sei tu con me, con me…" He sang a bit louder, and this time, he started to really sing the words to her, and if he wasn't a self-professed sociopath, it would have sounded tender.

"Su le finestre mostra a tutti il mio cuore che hai acceso, chiudi dentro me la luce che hai incontrato per strada."

The music started to finally drown out the loud, strained exchange in the kitchen, or at least it seemed that way to Sherlock. Marcie's soft cries abated somewhat, but it was hardly noticeable.

"Con te... partirò. Paesi - che non ho mai. Veduto e vissuto con te!" he sang, almost feverishly. "Adesso si li vivrò, Con te partirò. Su navi per mari che, io lo so, no, no, non esistono più. Con te partirò…"

Marcie seemed to be calming, even though her face was still twisted in misery, and Sherlock continued, hope sparking in his chest.

"Quando sei lontana sogno all'orizzonte e mancan le parole! E io sì lo so che sei con me, con me…" he sang, a bit louder, revelling in the fact that Marcie had finally relaxed, an angelic expression of tranquil perfection resting on her tiny face. Sherlock nuzzled her closer, singing as he laid a gentle finger her nose.

"Tu mia luna tu sei qui con me, mio sole tu sei qui con me, con me, con me... con me…" Sherlock sang, quieter. She was now fast asleep, her gentle baby breath blowing on his neck. He didn't even notice that the shouting had stopped, and the whole house had gone eerily quiet.

"Con me…" he whispered, walking slowly, thrilled to have put her to sleep but afraid of waking her once more.

It was in that very moment that he realized how utterly silent it was. Sherlock was straining to hear any sign of life for a spilt second, fearing that they had perhaps strangled each other, when he heard steps approaching the door. Two sets of them. He continued to sing, much less passionately, instantly assuming a neutral expression, and repeated the chorus while continuing to carefully pace the length of the room.

The door opened a crack, casting a wide stripe of yellowish light into the dark room.

"Sher-" John began, but Sherlock shot him a scolding look, still singing softly.

John stood still for a moment, taking in the sight, before moving in and coming toward Sherlock, but the detective pretended not to notice, while simultaneously moving away, still angry.

"Sherlock," John whispered harshly. Sherlock was having none of it.

"Sherlock," Mary cut in, in a scratchy whisper. Sherlock turned around to see her, standing behind John (though keeping her distance), her eyes still puffy in the low light. Sherlock guessed she had probably started crying the instant John turned his back; he knew she hated crying in front of John, and would certainly have never given her husband the satisfaction in the middle of such a heated argument. She had an obsession with showing no weakness, in a way people usually associated with men. Now she rushed for her child, and Sherlock, feeling a burst of compassion despite his general disapproval of this situation, stopped singing and allowed her to take Marcie and settle her against her own chest.

"I should probably feed her," she said in a quiet husky voice, one that stubbornly refusing to admit anything was wrong. However, she turned a quick and grateful look on the detective before settling into an overstuffed chair in the corner.

"Yeah," Sherlock snapped, but not loudly, and promptly turned and walked out of the room, taking a pointed detour that kept him from coming within a meter of John.

He was in the hallway, almost to the door, when he heard John running after him. He refused to do something so undignified as run away from John, even if that meant letting John catch his arm and spin him around forcefully.

"Sherlock!" John said, in a low but insistent undertone. Sherlock was facing him now, but had an expression of extreme impatience on his face.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," John started. Sherlock lost interest in the conversation.

"You and me both," Sherlock said coldly, and quickly walked to the door and opened it, but John was faster and slammed it shut before Sherlock could even set foot in the doorframe.

"Hear me out!" John insisted, in an angry but almost pleading tone. Sherlock softened slightly, seeing how embarrassed John looked (he'd better), but externally he showed no sign of it, and narrowed his eyes dangerously.

"Listen, mate, I'm sorry about - all that," John said, his eyes jumping between Sherlock's eyes and anything else but.

"Noted. Now if you'll excuse me," Sherlock said, unimpressed, and tried to move away, but John blocked him.

"Sherlock, listen to me - !" John said, cutting himself off, frustrated, and ducked his head, his fist clenched. Sherlock, finally convinced, allowed his expression to fall to something akin to compassion, but remained silent, waiting.

"I thought - I thought we were past that," John said, wearily, looking at the floor. Sherlock put a hand on his friend's arm.

"I think you are; you just forgot," Sherlock reminded softly. John stayed quiet a bit longer, clearly composing himself, and then raised his chin again, now back in control like the soldier that he was.

"Come on. There's something we need to tell you," John explained, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him. The detective did, an uneasy feeling rolling in his stomach like nausea. They walked together back to the kitchen, where there was no sign of the earlier altercation except to Sherlock's practiced eyes. They had to wait a very short time before Mary walked tiredly out of the hallway leading to the nursery, but looking much more steady and calm than earlier. The pair of them, British to the bitter end.

"Mary," John greeted, and an apology was in the word. Sherlock's eyes darted between the two, unsure of what was happening, and rather panicked at the idea of whatever this 'news' was. Surely they didn't mean they were going to…?

"Sherlock, thank you for - putting Marcie to sleep," Mary said, giving him an approving nod, and then forced a smile, but a second later it became natural. Sherlock gave her soft look.

Sherlock dipped his head cordially, not entirely sure if he should say they were welcome to that particular service.

"So, um, Sherlock," John said awkwardly, and moved to Mary's side. Mary seemed alarmed, and Sherlock could literally see the momentary internal battle; whether she should shove John away, or allow him into her space. It lasted less than second but it played out on her face; first anger, but then a crushing hold on that anger, replaced by a brave release of pride when she allowed John to slip his hand into hers. John probably had noticed all of this too, and his apology was in his gentle look and the way his thumb rubbed over her hand as he turned to face Sherlock. It was in moments like these that Sherlock appreciated his two best friends even more; they did not need words for their feelings, and understanding, like him, that some things could not be verbalized, and were better left untouched by such clumsy things as vocal cords.

Of course, this motion meant they were not about to announce their divorce, which made Sherlock almost sag with relief, since he had been legitimately fearing such a thing for a minute there. His eyes darted between the pair, waiting.

"I think we should tell you first," John started, but cut off to glance questioningly at Mary, who nodded her agreement, her eyes still on Sherlock. She smiled, stepping a tad bit closer to John.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, a bit impatiently.

"I'm pregnant," Mary said, her face glowing, and hand over her belly.

"Marcie's going to be a big sister," John added, his voice full of pride.

Sherlock's eyes widened for a second, a smile pulling at his face, when he shut down, automatically switching his expression to one that was unimpressed.

"I know," he replied, a shrug in his voice.

"Really?" John asked, half in wonder, and half in suspicion.

"Yes, of course I did," Sherlock continued easily. "It was obvious enough from her mug of tea, and-"

"Fibbing," Mary but in, silencing him.

"Okay, I didn't," Sherlock admitted, and allowed a smile to light up his face. "Congratulations." he said warmly, giving them a nod.

There was an awkward pause, and Sherlock shuffled a bit, before his eyes wandered to the door. Mary noticed this, and nodded almost imperceptibly in approval. Sherlock, relieved, began to bid them farewell. He had filled his emotional quota for the next month, and was eager to leave before more sentiment was dropped on his head. He felt awkward and ungainly in this situation, like a blindfolded elephant attempting to waltz. Thankfully Mary seemed to sense this and was allowing him to go without him feeling obligated to stay - however, they did not acknowledge this knowledge, for everyone's benefit.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Mary called after him, as he was walking down the hallway.

"Yes?" he asked, turning back, half annoyed and half embarrassed.

"You have a lovely voice," she said mischievously with a wink. Sherlock turned a shade darker and left, mumbling things under his breath about the dangers of sentiment and the lack of appreciation for quality music, leaving a chuckling couple in his wake, who tentatively leaned close to each other, lips brushing, eyes closed, at peace once more.

A/N: It was meant to be implied that the reason they were fighting was because Mary broke the news to John that she was pregnant. Despite some stereotypes you may be familiar with, when money is tight, a revelation like that isn't always joyful. But I hope you found that everyone was in character. Sherlock's flashback to his childhood was a last-minute decision - I like the way it turned out.

Thank you for reading, lovelies! I'd love it if you let me know what you thought!