"Sherlock?"

The world's only consulting detective rolled over and faced the back of the sofa.

"Sherlock."

His knees hunched closer to his chest and he huddled further into the sofa cushions, showing that he had heard John and was simply displaying his defiance further.

"Sherlock, you're being silly."

At this, Sherlock shot up and stood bolt upright, his bathrobe slipping off his left shoulder, exposing the pale skin that stretched over his collarbone. John watched silently, keeping a protective arm around the small body beside him.

"I am never silly," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as John rolled his "never"

"Silly. What a ridiculous word. Referring to me as 'silly' gives the impression that I am weak minded, foolish, lacking in good sense- all of which is not only unlike me in the extreme, but a completely unsuitable adjective." He waved his arms around manically to show his annoyance.

John glanced down beside him and felt the delicate heartbeat against his leg quicken. Afraid.

It was only due to this minute movement that Sherlock decided to pay any attention to the small- and quite clearly intimidated- child clinging to John's leg. He addressed his flatmate without taking his eyes away from the miniature human.

"What is this?" He said quietly, taking in the child's appearance.

Scuffed shoes, grazed knees- falls over a lot or is pushed? Her well worn red dress, was second hand, the fit was completely wrong. Flyaway chestnut hair, in two thin plaits dangling around her face, which was looking down at her feet: Shy? Afraid? Wary? Hrm... A plaster on her wrist, covering most of a faint pinkish blotch. Not a bruise or a cut, looks like someone grabbed onto her wrist so hard that they left a mark... then tried to cover it. Parent? No, if the parent had done the damage they would have made a better job of covering it, and the child would never think to do it themselves. Perhaps a significant other of the child's parent had made this mark, most likely a boyfriend, then tried to hide it from the girl's mother. If he abuses the child he most likely abuses the mother, probably the reason the child is here. So where is the mother?

During his observations Sherlock glanced at the tiny visitor's face and recoiled at the sight of a small dribble of snot under her nose.

John cleared his throat and took one step to the right, hoping the child would step forwards. Instead, their young guest clung to the doctor's leg and whimpered, face buried into the stiff fabric of his new jeans. That can't be comfortable, he thought absent-mindedly. Must be terrified. He looked back to Sherlock, who was stood with his arms folded, glaring angrily at the intruder. John felt that the child was perfectly justified in being scared the taller man. He was sometimes scared of him.

"Sherlock," he said softly, shooting his flatmate a stern warning with his eyes, "this is Roma." He put a reassuring hand on the little girl's arm and gently prized her from his leg as he crouched down beside her. She tried to squat down behind him but he kept her stood upright and tilted her chin up with one finger so they were eye to eye.

"Roma, this is my friend Sherlock."

"I thought you were my colleague?" Sherlock quipped. John took a deep breath and ignored him.

"Now, sweetie, you're going to be staying with us for a while, until we find somewhere else for you to go, ok?"

The girl glanced fearfully at Sherlock then back to John. She sniffed and wiped her sleeve across her face, and Sherlock was disgusted to see the snot was now smeared all over the girl's sleeve. He shuddered, and slumped back down on the sofa, no longer angry, just mildly aggravated.

John smiled at Roma, "He can be a bit grumpy. But sometimes he's really nice, and sometimes he's so nice that he plays music for me."

The girl tilted her head towards the willowy man who was now watching the interaction between his flatmate and this strange little girl, his lips resting on his tented fingertips. She looked back at John. John was kind. John had happy eyes and didn't scare her like the tall one with the sad eyes. The tall one didn't look like someone who would enjoy music. He didn't look like someone who enjoyed anything.

"Music?" she asked John in disbelief.

"Yes," John replied, curious as to how this confused her, "he plays the violin."

Roma knew the word violin, it was a small guitar. Mummy had had a guitar, and she had been allowed to touch the glossy wood, but only if she cleaned her hands first, because they were normally mucky, but she was never allowed to touch the strings or the twiddly bits. Mummy had never played the guitar; Roma didn't think she even knew how, just that she liked owning it.

"Is he good?"

"He's very good."

Roma considered this.

"The best?"

John chuckled, "He seems to think so."

Roma looked at the tall man again; so he was the best...? He averted his gaze.

"Can I hear?"

John smiled and opened his mouth to respond but the tall man cut across him, "No."

"Why not, Sherlock?"

"Because," Sherlock argued, "I am not going to play for this strange little street urchin you've brought into my home."

"Our home."

"Well, technically Mrs Hudson's home, we are simply tenants, but my point still stands; I want her out."

"We have to look after her for a while."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, I gathered that. From her dishevelled appearance and the fact that it's nearly midnight, I'd say that you've brought her from the custody of the police, since you've been at Scotland Yard all day," Sherlock looked the girl up and down, "Her mother has either been badly injured or killed by her lover or more likely former lover, from whom she had recently escaped, child in tow. You are now in possession of this orphan as there is obviously no father to be contacted, and I can deduce that the mother had recently fled from her attacker as no other friends or family members have been contacted, suggesting that the mother didn't know anybody well enough yet to trust them with her daughter, and that this child is quite clearly at school-attending age, yet no teachers have been informed so as to assist in finding somewhere for her to stay. So, she was entrusted to you, what with your familiarity, medical background and somewhat caring nature."

Roma looked up at John in alarm, who was himself looking at Sherlock in complete disbelief.

"Obviously from your reaction I was correct. Injured or killed?" Sherlock said offhandedly.

John shook his head angrily at Sherlock and turned his attention to Roma.

"Why don't you go and have a look at Sherlock's violin? It's just over there," he pointed at the desk next to the window, "In the black case."

Roma nodded and walked towards the case, glancing warily at Sherlock, who stood up and swiftly and scooped the violin out of the girl's reach.

"Sherlock. Can I have a word in the hall?" John said with false cheeriness.

"No, and tell this little crawler to-"

"Now, Sherlock."

The detective froze and regarded John's stern face. He grumbled and slouched towards the doorway where John was standing, hands on hips.

"For God's sake, just give her the violin and stop acting like a brat- it'll only be for a few minutes."

Sherlock glared at the shorter man and hugged the case to his chest protectively.

John massaged his temples and sighed, "She won't touch it, will you Roma?"

The little girl shook her head frantically, her plaits swinging.

"See?" John said carefully, "Now just let her have a look, and we can talk out here."

Sherlock sighed and gave the girl the violin case, before returning to the hall, closing the door behind him, and came face to face with a furious John. Well, chest to face.

"What?"

John punched him on the shoulder- hard.

"What the fuck, Sherlock? Her mother's been just been killed!"

"I know. Presumably blunt force trauma. Why did you hit me?"

"That doesn't make a difference-" John hissed, ignoring Sherlock's question and pointing towards the door, behind which Sherlock was picturing sticky fingers all over his precious violin. He winced as John continued, "- she is four years old, Sherlock, try to think a bit before you speak."

Sherlock considered the things he had said earlier, and contemplated whether or not it was what John defined as 7'appropriate' to tell his deductions to the child about her dead mother. Probably not.

"So why is she here, instead of with a social worker?" he said thoughtfully, though he already knew the answer, "Her mother knew Mycroft, I'm presuming."

John nodded, "Not a close friend, it seems, but close enough for him to be concerned for the child. He insisted I take her home; he said she'd be well looked after here and that he'd call in at the next possible opportunity."

"So, I repeat, why is she here, as opposed to a children's home?"

John looked up at Sherlock with some amusement, "You're always saying yourself that Mycroft is the British Government, he can do whatever he-"

Sherlock silenced John by simply holding one hand up and frowned, "That's not what I meant. Honestly, John, when will you stop hearing and start listening? Neither of us are fathers, or have any prior experience in caring for a young child, so what on earth would make him think a child would benefit from living under our influence?"

"He, um, he probably had Mrs Hudson in mind."

"Oh."

The two men shared a silence. John looked at the wallpaper in the corner of the wall, thinking about how it needed re-papering, maybe something cheerful, like yellow. Sherlock looked at John, thinking about whether the doctor would go for the same paper as they had now, or something entirely different, but hopefully he'd change his mind to blue instead of yellow. Yellow was so overly-inviting, but he conceded that not much else could be expected from John the doctor.

"So, what now?" Sherlock said calmly, breaking the comfort of the silence.

John suddenly looked rather lost, "I don't know,"

He frowned and licked his lips, "I've never looked after anything bigger than a goldfish before, and that died within a fortnight."

"Excellent." Sherlock muttered, fetching his phone from his pocket. John watched as he rapidly began texting.

"Why don't you and Mycroft just ring each other instead of all this texting?"

"The sound of his voice gives me a headache." Sherlock said distractedly as he finished tapping.

John rolled his eyes and was about to say something about Mycroft only looking out for Sherlock's best interests when a text tone sounded and Sherlock raised his hand to silence John. The detective's eyes flickered over the screen for a second or so, glowering, before he returned his phone to his coat pocket with a look of bitter resignation.

"So," he said, raising his eyebrows exasperatedly at John, "What are we supposed to do with it?"

Sherlock inspected his violin carefully. It did not appear smudged or broken in any way. Satisfied, he gently placed it back in its case and turned to face the child, who was sat cross legged on the sofa, taking in her new surroundings.

'Why didn't John have any spare blankets?' Sherlock mused angrily, watching his flatmate leave with a cheery call of "I'm sure Mrs Hudson will have something, won't be long!"

Sherlock sighed as he thought 'He's a doctor, for God's sake; he should be prepared for situations such as this...'

Roma had picked up the scarf that had been slung over the arm of the sofa, smiling as she gently stroked it with her fingertips. She rubbed the woollen fabric against her cheek and was delighted at how soft it felt. It reminded her of her friend Hannah's new puppy. She'd liked that puppy. It had been really wriggly and when its hot little tongue had licked her on the nose it felt rough and smooth same time and it made her laugh. She'd like to see Hannah and her puppy again. She hadn't seen Hannah since mummy had taken her away, but she didn't mind, because this scarf was a satisfactory replacement. It didn't smell like Hannah's puppy though. Hannah's puppy had smelt like dog shampoo, this scarf smelt like nicer. She pressed her face further into the deep blue fabric and breathed in the musky scent. This scarf smelt much nicer than Hannah's puppy.

"Put that down!" Sherlock snapped bad-temperedly, causing her to jump in fright and drop the scarf, which slid from the sofa to the floor in a heap. She leaned over slightly as if to pick it back up, then thought better of it after a warning glance from Sherlock told her 'no'. She then used her heels to push herself as far into the corner of the sofa as possible.

"Sorry." She mumbled, hanging her head.

"That's quite alright," Sherlock said sternly, "but you are not to touch my belongings. John has a stuffed bear in a box under his bed that he thinks I don't know about. Of course I know about it, that's the first place he hid my cigarettes, so predictable. From the amount of times the bear has been damaged and repaired I think it's entirely likely to say he has owned it since he was about your age. That would be more appropriate than my scarf, would it not?"

The girl just looked blankly at him with alarmed brown eyes. She reminded Sherlock of the time John had shown him, through tears of laughter, that ridiculous photograph of a squirrel holding a plastic gun that Harry had emailed him. He had failed to see the hilarity in a medium-sized rodent and a disproportionately sized children's toy. This girl had that same nervous look about her. Sherlock sneered at the memory.

"Do you often not respond?" he asked the girl. Why was John taking so long?

She considered this for a few seconds before shrugging.

Sherlock sighed and pursed his lips in frustration. He scanned the room and then turned his attention back at the girl.

"Where are your things?" he said slowly, at which Roma glanced once over her shoulder as if expecting a suitcase to have appeared next to the door. She looked up at Sherlock and shrugged again.

"Dunno."

"Don't know." Sherlock corrected sharply, "you don't know where your belongings are. 'Dunno' is an amalgamation of 'don't'- which is itself an oafish shortcut of the English language- and 'know'. It is a lazy word and I don't like hearing it in my presence, not that John ever pays any attention when I correct his speech. I will not tolerate laziness in this flat- is that understood?"

Roma thought of the first time she saw the tall man John calls 'Sherlock'. He was sulking on the sofa and pretending he couldn't hear. She thought that he was the lazy one, not her. But she didn't say that, because she was still quite scared of him.

"I like your scarf." she said, pointing at the navy mound of wool on the floor.

"I know you do," Sherlock said sarcastically, his eyes widening as he clapped his hands together in false encouragement, "why else were you defiling it with your grimy little hands?"

Roma swallowed and her eyes glazed over slightly, causing Sherlock to weaken slightly, remembering what John had said about her only being four.

"I like it too." He said after a few seconds, before hanging it on the coat rack, way out of reach of sticky fingers.

He glanced over at Roma and the pair shared a small smile, which was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Hudson, who immediately rushed over to where Roma was sat and starting pinching the girl's cheeks and cooing "So this is your little visitor!"

Sherlock noticed Roma's slight alarm and evident discomfort- she wasn't used to attention and overt affection, was her mother perhaps indifferent to her child? Unusual, maternal instincts were normally to smother children in love and attention. Perhaps she was preoccupied with a habit- no, addiction. Now, was the addiction to drink or drugs? As Sherlock brooded, John stumbled through the flat's inner door, dragging a lilac duvet behind him.

"Oh Sherlock, haven't you given the poor little lamb anything to eat?" Mrs Hudson scolded, stroking the top of Roma's head, who squirmed out of the way, "She'll waste away, won't you pet?"

John laughed and pointed at Sherlock, "Him? He can barely remember to feed himself, let alone another human being..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, who simply smiled back innocently. Mrs Hudson looked around at the three of them and clapped her hands together dramatically.

"Well, I'll have to be off, I've got to meet Brenda very early in the morning for my aqua aerobics class," she said, as John and Sherlock received a mental image of their beloved landlady in a swimming costume, and slightly shuddered in unison- thankfully Mrs Hudson did not notice, and turned to address John, "but I'll be round first thing in the morning, and I'll ask Brenda for some clothes for the little love, she has three granddaughters, you know."

John raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly in response, "Yes, you, um, I think you mentioned that before, once." He ran his hands through his hair and smiled politely at Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock simply looked disinterested.

"Anyway, like I said boys, I've got to be off..." She gave each of the men a peck on the cheek, receiving a warm hug in return from John and an awkward Sherlock bending down slightly so she could reach his face. She then gave Roma a motherly squeeze before bidding them all goodnight and leaving.

Her exit left a stale silence in the room as the three occupants of 221B looked at each other cautiously for a few seconds. John was the first to speak.

"Who's hungry?"

Sherlock was moodily putting his box of human hair back in his room under John's orders ("Sherlock she is a child, we can't have her wandering about with heads and fingers and bloody eyeballs all over the place, now put them all away!") when he heard music playing. No, not music; cheap, trashy, mass-produced filth. He exhaled angrily and marched into the kitchen; where John was singing along happily as he stirred bolognaise sauce. Roma was sat at the table, her skinny legs swinging as she watched John work, sipping from a large glass of milk and laughing as he chanted along with the music.

The detective silently flicked the radio off, causing the pair to stop what they were doing and look at him, Roma with confusion and John with exasperation. Playing ignorant, Sherlock sat down in the seat facing the little girl, who smiled at him timidly. He did not return the friendly gesture and instead nodded his head towards the milk.

"Did you know that there is currently research taking place in Canada to determine whether there is a link between milk consumption and bedwetting in young children?"

Roma's cheeks flushed crimson. She didn't understand most of what John's friend said, but she knew all too well what bedwetting was.

"I don't wet the bed!" she flustered.

"I never said that you did." Sherlock said haughtily, turning his nose up at the girl's evident embarrassment.

"Play nice, Sherlock," John said, pretending to be stern as he served up the meal for three.

Roma struggled to eat her spaghetti with her fork and slurped it up noisily, tomato sauce flicking all over her chin, much to John's amusement. He joined in, making funny noises and pulling faces to make her laugh, and then tried to show her how to twirl spaghetti round a fork, but after a few messy attempts he sat back and let her slurp, watching her fondly from across the table.

Sherlock delicately ate a few bites, then pushed his plate away sulkily and stood up to leave.

"He can't get down from the table!" Roma said quietly, not looking up from her plate, "he hasn't finished."

Sherlock looked at her coldly, "I'll do what I want."

"But," she protested, "I'm never allowed to leave the table until I'm finished..." She looked pleadingly at John, "it's the rule!"

"Well," John said, looking from Roma to Sherlock and back again, "it is the rule, Sherlock."

The detective narrowed his silver eyes at the doctor, who was beaming at him, clearly enjoying his role as the favoured parent a bit too much. Sherlock sat back down and Roma leaned over the table and pushed his plate back towards him as John tried to stifle a chuckle.

"Finish it all,"

She added ominously: "or you won't get dessert."

Three hours later, John was trying to decide whether it was the done thing, or the entirely inappropriate thing to offer a little girl his bedroom for the night instead of making her sleep on the sofa. As he was setting Mrs Hudson's spare duvet up the living room, he glanced over to see that both Roma and Sherlock were still sat at the kitchen table, Sherlock's dinner still not finished. The girl was quite clearly struggling to stay awake, but she refused crumble under Sherlock's icy stare in this epic standoff. John smiled to himself as he returned to his bedroom to fetch pillows. He sat on the edge of his bed to take off his shoes. Within thirty seconds of removing his shoes he was fast asleep.

The next morning, John entered the kitchen, scratching his head sleepily. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil he noticed that Sherlock's dinner plate was still on the table. Empty. Surprised, he made himself a mug of tea and wandered into the living room, ready to settle down to a lazy day of watching cricket. But the sofa was occupied.

Sherlock was slouched on the sofa, reading a book entitled 'A Practical Approach to Yeast'. Roma was curled up beside him, snoring softly on top of the duvet.

Bewildered, John sat down in his armchair and looked at Sherlock questioningly.

Sherlock glanced down as if he'd only just become aware of Roma's presence.

"She's asleep."

"I gathered." John said with a small nod.

Sherlock frowned a little bit and went back to his book, "How long will she be here, John?"

John shrugged, "Not sure."

Roma rolled over in her sleep and one of her arms flopped over Sherlock's knee. He gently picked up her wrist and removed it from his leg without taking his eyes away from the book. She squirmed again and gave a small, mewing cry in her sleep, causing the detective to glance at her worriedly, but she quietened down almost immediately and flung her arm across Sherlock's leg again as she rolled back over. This time he left it there, and after watching her for a few more seconds, he returned to his book.

It was only then that John noticed that Roma was clutching Sherlock's scarf with her free hand. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead just watched his flatmate's frosty eyes looking at him across the top of his book.

John licked his lips, "Mycroft did say she was only staying here until he could find somewhere suitable..."

"I know."

Sherlock brought his eyes back to his book, and John folded his arms across his chest and regarded the detective, who kept glancing at the sleeping child in a way that John- despite knowing Sherlock's complete lack of emotion all too well- could only describe as 'protective'.

"Don't be ridiculous, John."

"I didn't say any-"

"You were thinking it."