A/N: Lily herself will be more present in later chapters, though it will still mostly focus on Sherlock, John, and Mary. Reviews are lovely.

Disclaimer: Not mine


John Watson was pacing back and forth in the flat at 221B.

"Should've heard something by now," he muttered. "How long has it been?" He stared irritably at his watch, though the last time he checked it was less than a minute ago.

"42," said Sherlock.

"What?" John turned to look at him.

"42 paces," he clarified, without looking up from the tray of toes he was experimenting on. "In case you were wondering how long it took to wear a threadbare path in the carpet."

John sighed, picking up his phone from the table where it stubbornly refused to ring.

"Yeah, well I'm a bloody nervous wreck, aren't I?"

"Hm, you know what you need?" Sherlock replied, setting down the severed toe and blowtorch he was holding.

"What's that?"

"A case," he said seriously.

John shook his head, smirking. "No, no…"

"I have a new one in."

"No."

"Seems like an interesting one by the looks of things."

"Sherlock –" John looked at him incredulously. "I can't. I'm waiting for the call!"

"Yes," he agreed, "And you'll still get it while looking at a case." Sherlock grabbed his laptop from the armrest and gestured beside him. "Have a look?"

John sighed, straightening up. "Oh, all right. Guess I might as well. Not going to be doing much of this for a while, anyway."

Sherlock paused as he was clearing away his petri dishes and looked skeptically at John. "Yes, you will."

"What? No-" John started, genuinely surprised. "No, Sherlock… we're having a baby. Mary, in the hospital right now, could be giving birth at any moment, if…she hasn't already…" he trailed off, nervously picking up his phone.

"So?"

"So we'll have a newborn! Bottles, diapers, being woken up every two hours… I won't have time to work on a case."

Sherlock just continued to smile skeptically at John.

"What is that look for?" John demanded in a low voice, as Sherlock started to laugh. "I know that smirk. Don't you smirk at me, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock continued to laugh and John, despite himself, began to join in.

"Mark my words," Sherlock assured him, "You'll be back here before you know it."

"No, I…oh, why do I even bother?" John pointed at his laptop. "So what's this case, then?"

"Lady Isabel Anastasia," Sherlock said, pulling up a picture on the computer. The woman had long brown hair, looked to be I her early 30s, and was gazing blankly past the camera. There was something distinctly eerie about her, John realized. Something about her eyes looked haunted, and empty. He shivered.

"She checked into the Rosewood Resort and Spa on a Tuesday night, on a tiny private resort island in the Caribbean. By the following morning, she reported her luggage stolen. They put out a search for it, as she claims she had quite a bit of expensive jewelry in it, but no one finds anything. Not until Jeremy Friedrich, a local boy, turns up with her suitcase the next day, claiming to have found it by the side of the road. Lady Anastasia rewards him, and it all makes for quite a story in the local papers. Here's the photo of them after the luggage was returned."

John watched as Sherlock brought up another picture on his laptop. On a small town's news blog there was another picture of the woman, smiling this time, holding a large lavender luggage case and shaking hands with a 13-year-old kid with glasses and curly hair. John waited for Sherlock to explain what happened next; what crime they had to solve. Did the kid turn up dead somewhere the next day? Maybe the case was stolen again, or perhaps someone had planted a bomb in it?

This explanation didn't seem to be coming, however.

"So what is it then? I mean, that's not exactly a case, is it? Seems like it's kind of a done deal."

Sherlock continued to stare at the picture thoughtfully, with the tips of his fingers pressed together. "There's something wrong with this picture, John. Do you see it?"

John obliged, leaning in and squinting to analyze the picture more carefully. He shook his head, not seeing anything wrong. Except…

"Well, that's an awfully big case," he said.

"Exactly," Sherlock remarked, "The suitcase is…"

"…Too big to carry on a plane," John finished. "She could have checked it?"

"No luggage tag," he pointed out.

John nodded. "Yeah, but so what?"

Sherlock spread his hands incredulously. "So, she can't have brought it with her. Therefore…" he gestured for John to continue.

"Therefore…it can't be the bag that was stolen," he answered slowly. "But," he asked skeptically, "Why would Lady Anastasia reward the kid for returning the wrong case?"

Sherlock smirked. "Why indeed, John?"

They looked at each other, puzzling through the details of the mystery. John felt chills creep up the back of his spine, the feeling he got sometimes when they were working on a case. It happened when the pieces started to fall into place, when a particular detail or clue began to peel back the wallpaper and reveal what was really going on in the world around them. It didn't happen often, but in these moments John could begin to understand why solving crimes was Sherlock's drug of choice.

It was the closest thing to an insight to the mind of his best friend that he had.

Just then, the phone rang. Loudly.

They both jumped.

"That's my…" John began, rummaging for his cell phone.

"…Yeah," Sherlock said.

"Oh god, it's happening. I've got to-"

"End table," he said, where John immediately snatched his phone.

Sherlock took one more look at the picture of Lady Isabel Anastasia before closing his laptop and moving it out of John's way, who was reaching across the table for his jacket.

"Probably just a smuggling deal or something," Sherlock tacked on awkwardly.

"Ah, yup," John answered distractedly, answering the call and pressing the phone to his ear.

Sherlock heard a tinny voice issue forth. "Dr. Watson? It looks like its time for you to return now."

"Right. On my way." Standing rigidly upright, John grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the flat before Sherlock had a chance to wonder what to say next.

Sherlock blew the air out of his cheeks to add some noise to the sudden Saturday-afternoon quietness of the room. He stood up, pacing lazily around the flat. He stopped at the window, watching the speckled sunlight filter in. He traced the windowsill with one finger. There was still a bit of dust there.

He was surprised to find his mind inexplicably filled with the sound of a wailing infant. Images floated by his mind's eye; he saw John and Mary, wearing tired smiles; he saw something pink and wrinkly wrapped in a soft white bundle. He shook his head to dispel the noise, but the mental clutter was particularly stubborn.

He nearly tripped over his own violin and music stand, but when he saw the instrument, he raised it to his shoulder, lethargically plucking the strings. After a moment's hesitation, he raised the bow, and started to play.

2:29 pm, March 15, 2015

Welcome to the world, Lily August Watson