John returned to Baker Street rather late, laden with his few possessions. Struggling with his walking stick, he awkwardly navigated the narrow staircase, his

view limited by a rather large cardboard box of miscellanea. He was aware of the small television blaring some music video at borderline tolerable volume as he

carefully set his box down on the first available surface – which, thanks to the chaotic state of the living room, happened to be the stovetop.

"Who are you?" a voice asked sharply over the din on the television.

John turned. Folded into the armchair in front of the telly, almost entirely obscured by a quilted blanket, was a child.

"I-uhm…" It had been a long and strange day and John found himself unable to process the situation at any speed at all. The girl, he was almost certain it was

a girl, judging by the length of wildly curled dark hair, but her features were weirdly androgynous. Clothes might have given him certainty, but the quilt didn't

allow for even a glimpse. In any case, girl or boy, the child was perhaps eleven at the most and John found himself wondering what such a child might do up at

nearly midnight on a Thursday.

"D'you live here?" he asked for lack of anything better to say.

"Nah," she said, her gaze glued to the television, "I just wandered in off the street a little while ago and thought I catch up on my generation's cultural canon.

In my pyjamas. Of course I bloody live here. And judging from that box slowly catching fire in the kitchen, so do you."

"What?"

"Do. You. Live. Here?" she said slowly, as if she was talking to someone outrageously thick.

"I-"

"Fire," the girl sang out leisurely, still completely focused on the TV.

John spun around and knocked the smoking box of the stove top, drenching it with the liquid closest at hand; tea, straight from the pot.

"Why the bloody hell is the stove on?" he shouted.

"I was making dinner."

"What dinner?" John could see no evidence of a meal cooked or consumed.

"There was nothing to cook," came the even-toned answer.

"Then why in God's name is the stove still on?"

There was a pause at that.

"Forgot," the kid said finally.

"I see," John huffed.

"D'you have any money?"

"What?"

"I said-"

The door was flung open and Sherlock strode into the room, swiped a dense looking bound volume from a stack of books on the mantel and started flicking

through the pages.

"Sherlock?" John called over the music, which seemed to be getting louder at a slow but steady pace. The kid was pressing the volume on the remote

absentmindedly but in perfect time with the beat of the song.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

"Sherlock!"

"What, John?" he snapped irritably.

"You didn't mention you had a-"

"Will you turn that ungodly racket down, child?" Sherlock boomed so abruptly it made John jump. The child in question however, didn't flinch. Rather, the volume

increased further.

Sherlock crossed the room with two strides, snatched the remote control, turned off the television and tossed the remote out of the window.

"Is that your daughter?" John asked into the ensuing silence.

"Regrettably so," Sherlock sighed.

"You didn't mention her."

"Didn't I?"

"No."

"Hm."

"Anyway," John waved his hand in greeting, somewhat pointlessly, "I'm John."

"Thea," she said, not returning his wave.

"Alethea," Sherlock corrected.

"Thea," she repeated.

"Why go through the trouble of selecting a suitable, majestic name for a child if they're just going to butcher it?" Sherlock groaned. "Have you eaten?"

"No," said Thea, visibly perking up.

"Change that," Sherlock waved a bank note at her and she jumped from under the quilts with remarkable speed, snatched it and made for the door. "Children

need to eat so frequently.."

"You…what…no…stop!"

"What?" Both Holmes looked at John in confusion.

"It's past midnight," John said.

"That's alright, the take away on the corner is open til three," Sherlock assured him.

"Yea," Thea confirmed.

"You can't send a kid wandering the streets alone at night," John elaborated somewhat exasperated.

"It's not even two hundred yards away," scoffed his new flatmate.

"That's hardly the point-"

The door fell closed behind Thea. John stared at Sherlock in disbelief, waiting for him to follow his daughter into the drizzling dark. Sherlock, however, appeared

to have gone into some kind of weird trance staring at the book he still had in his hand. Muttering curses, John took up his walking stick and made for the

stairs.

()

He caught up with Thea at the door of the take away.

"This is no time for a little girl to be-"

"-dying of starvation," she finished for him. "I concur, that would be positively medieval. Or third worldish. Or barbaric. D'you want something?"

He was rather peckish come to think of it.

"Two Vindaloo, please" Thea shouted at the man behind the counter when they entered one moment later.

"Nothing for Sherl- for your dad?" John asked.

"He's not in the habit of eating," she said casually. "Digestion slows him down, supposedly. I think he just forgets, personally. Eating's just not that

interesting."

She collected the two containers from the counter, having to stand on tip toe, paid and stormed back towards 221B, John struggling to keep pace.

()

"That smells rancid," Sherlock commented when Thea ripped open her container of Vindaloo and started shovelling it into her mouth with a teaspoon she'd

found in amongst the debris on the kitchen table. "Sit properly!"

He was staring intently into a microscope set up on the kitchen counter.

"I am," she shot back, muffled by a mouthful of food, although her perch on the armrest of the chair seemed precarious.

John cleared himself a patch of kitchen table, moved a stack of books from a chair to the floor and went in search of a spoon, striking gold in one of the kitchen

drawers. A lone spoon lay amongst a selection of test tubes and tongs of all sizes.

"So, Thea," he said in an attempt at casual conversation, "do have school tomorrow?"

"No," she said just as Sherlock replied "Yes".

"I don't have school on Saturdays," she groaned.

"Tomorrow's Friday," Sherlock reminded her.

"It's not, today's Friday."

"Touché," Sherlock grinned behind his microscope. "You've got school in- "he glanced at his watch "-seven hours."

Thea emitted a non-committal grunt.

"Homework done?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure," she said smoothly.

"Liar."

"I'll do it in on the bus."

"As if your handwriting wasn't atrocious enough as it is," Sherlock muttered.

Thea shrugged, concentrating on scraping her plastic container clean. When she was satisfied that no more nourishment was to be had from it, she tossed the

almost pristine dish towards the sink, missing by several metres.

"Have you practised?"

"I don't need to" John suppressed a smirk at Thea's nonchalance "I'm a savant."

"You don't know what that means," Sherlock said drily.

"It means," she shot back, "I don't need to practise violin."

"You play the violin?" John inquired politely.

"There you are," said Sherlock, "play for John, showcase your savant abilities."

"It's one in the morning," Thea protested. "I'd wake Mrs Hudson."

"As you seem to have devised a convenient excuse for any purposeful activity I believe it is bedtime."

"But-"

"You are quickly exhausting my patience, Alethea."

"Your dad's got a point," John added, quite enjoying the show now. "It is rather late."

"This is bollocks!" the girl exclaimed.

"Language."

"Stop! Why are you pretending to be an adult?! And you," she rounded on John, "you've only just moved in and already you're the boss of me?"

"Bed," Sherlock said firmly.

"I'm digesting-"

"For God's sake, do I have to take you there myself?"

"Would you?" Thea asked with a sudden smile.

"I'm working."

John watched Thea's smile vanish as quickly as it had appeared. To his surprise, so did Sherlock. Sighing, he abandoned his microscope and rose.

"Come on then," he said, offering his daughter his hand.

"Can you bring 'The Art of War'?" she asked.

"You can read."

"Your monotone calms me."

"Two pages."

"Seven."

"Non-negotiable."

"Five?"

Sherlock sighed anew.

"Fine," he conceded.

"Smashing," Thea beamed, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the door. "Good night, John," she called over her shoulder.

"Enough pleasantries, let's go," Sherlock growled.

John listened to their footsteps disappearing upstairs and leaned back in his chair. He listened to the soft patter of the rain against the window, joined shortly

after by the indistinct murmur of Sherlock reading aloud in the room above him. In amongst the mayhem of books, instruments and test tubes, John caught

himself feeling strangely at home.