"Tell me again why you and Mary are getting a divorce?" Sherlock asked for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

John sighed. "It's very simple really. I don't even know her real name! And after she lied about being pregnant..." He rubbed his face. "And there's another thing, too. Sherlock, I'm gay."

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･* (linebreak of Johnlock fabulousness)

"Do you think he was shot because someone wanted his power?"

"Don't be an idiot, John, look at his watch! Clearly whoever shot him- or paid someone to shoot him, which is more likely- decided that this man knew too much."

"I'll just leave you boys to work on that, shall I?" Lestrade interrupted. "I need to write up an initial report and the team needs to do some tests."

"Oh, yes, that sounds great, thanks," said John. Sherlock didn't even look up.

"So, Mr. Holmes, what do you deduce?" John asked mockingly.

"I deduce that he's been on the run for at least a year with a hard drive containing some crucial information that the shooter took." He saw the look on John's face and added, " I further deduce that you didn't actually want to know what I had deduced. And lastly," he said, scanning the broken-down warehouse around them, "I deduce that we are not alone here."

John pulled out his gun just as a girl, around fifteen years old, stepped out of the shadows. "Well done," she said. "Duck!" Sherlock and John hit the floor just in time to dodge a round of sniper bullets fired at where they had been standing.

The girl pulled out a gun and fired one shot. The muffled thump of a body hitting the floor echoed around the warehouse. "Right," she continued. "There are more coming. We need to run."

So they ran, the three of them dodging bullets, John and the girl occasionally turning to fire at their pursuers, Sherlock leading the way. Multiple times, John tried to make conversation with the girl, but she cut him off in a strangely Sherlock-esque fashion. Finally, they arrived at Baker Street, having lost the shooters half a mile before. "Right, so who are you?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said. "The question is, who were they?"

"No idea," said the girl. "But you're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, you, Sherlock, you're participating in this case because you're bored and you, John, are doing it because Sherlock is."

Sherlock turned to John. "That's sweet of you," he said.

The girl continued, "John, you left your wife because she lied to you and shortly afterwards you realised that you are gay, and now you and Sherlock are dating. Am I right?"

"Yes," John said, "but how did you-" But the girl was already gone.

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"Diana," the girl said. She had shown up on the doorstep of 221B Baker St. a few minutes ago with a beaten, bloody seventeen year old boy in tow, who introduced himself as Hamish. His parents had been murdered three days previously, and the killers had been chasing him ever since. And now the girl had a name.

"Diana," Sherlock repeated. "I recognise that name."

"I'm not surprised," Diana muttered in annoyance. "But anyways, I think Hamish may be able to lead us to the murderers who killed that other man. Did you find out his name?"

"No," John said.

"What can you tell us about the murderers, Hamish?" Sherlock asked.

"Not much, I mean... They were wearing black... and... Oh! They all had a little tattoo on the inside of their wrists. It looked like... a snake? No, a dragon. It was breathing fire."

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, yes! Yes! I've been looking for them for ages, and now they're in London! Oh, it's Christmas!" John shot Sherlock a show-some-decency look, and Sherlock assumed an expression common at the deathbed of an old friend. "I mean, sorry about your parents, Hamish."

"So, what are you going to do now, Hamish?" John asked, trying to change the subject.

"I don't know," he said. "It'll be hard for me to get a job, mainly the only thing I'm good at is chemistry. And, you know, I don't think many people want to adopt an antisocial seventeen-year-old chemist."

John and Sherlock looked at each other, then said to Hamish in unison: "Are you any good at chemistry?"

Diana started laughing, while Hamish looked confused. "They want to adopt you!" she explained between peals of laughter.

He looked at the pair. "I could use someone to help me with my experiments," Sherlock said, embarrassed.

"What do you say?" John asked.

"That would be..." Hamish paused. "Amazing."

"What about you, Diana?" John said after a moment. "I mean, where are your parents?"

"I ran away from the orphanage when I was seven."

"Right." John said awkwardly.

"Do I know you?" asked Sherlock. "Maybe I deleted the memory, I do that with irrelevant things."

"Oh, of course," Diana said mockingly. "I'm irrelevant." She turned and left.

Sherlock sat for a moment, thinking hard. Suddenly, he leapt up and ran after her, yelling, "Diana! DIANA!"

He came back a minute later with Diana following him.

John stood up. "Would either of you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?"

Diana looked down, embarrassed. Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "John, this is Diana Holmes. My daughter."

John collapsed back into his chair. "But... you must've been... fifteen?"

"Why else wouldn't I have taken her in after her mother died? Oh god, Mycroft is never going to let me hear the end of this."

A/N: What do you think? This was a sort of random idea that popped into my head. It's kind of crazy and chaotic, but so is Sherlock's life, you know?

R&R!