Sherlock was sat in the kitchen, staring down the lenses at some form of poison that the lab couldn't identify. He was talking to john, explaining everything as he went along. John was at work. It wasn't a day any different from another. John had woken up, Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa (refusing himself to sleep), breakfast was small and quick, they had exchanged small conversation, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Even for people who weren't living the lives of John and Sherlock. The only thing that was different was the paper that hadn't turned up. Sherlock sat there, quickly losing interest in what he was doing, he'd worked it out within the first 5 minutes but was entertaining himself. He was half tempted to text John to come back from work, but he had called him out enough this week. John would lose his job if he left again. Sherlock didn't want the arguments that it would cause if he did lose his job.

A heavy sigh was heard caused by Sherlock, he'd lost all interest in the microscopic image in front of his eyes. He called out for John but he didn't reply. Sherlock panicked, wondering where John could have gone. After all, he was just talking to him. He left his stool quickly, his dressing gown flowing behind him as he ran around the apartment, head poking through the door of every room followed by a loud

"John?"

John never replied. Sherlock checked the calendar. It was a weekday, John was at work. Sherlock made a mental note to keep track of the days so he knew when John wasn't around. He realised he should probably pay more attention to his flat mate then he did. He did owe him a lot after all. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, spreading his arms out along the top and resting his head back against it. He let his eyes fall shut for a while, he hadn't slept in days. Sherlocks thoughts wandered off to nothing but John. He thought of how he had studied his behaviour and learnt everything about him in one day of them living together. Yet there was always something new to learn about John, Sherlock found. His fingers twitched, playing with themselves at the corners of the sofa. Long arms reached the length of it. Sherlock placed his feet on the coffee table; a luxury he could only have when John wasn't around. Which wasn't very often for Sherlock, he rarely realised John had left his side. He flexed his toes and relaxed completely into the sofa. Sherlock started to drift away listening to the ticking of the only working clock (he had destroyed many of the others in the name of science), his breathing slowing down with his heart beat, slowly falling asleep. Everything was calm in 221B.

That was until Sherlock was awoken by 3 sharp knocks on the door. His eyes flew open, yet he didn't move. Started to work out who it could be. It couldn't be John, he had a key, too quick to be a friend, not that he had any, a case would have used the bell. This was a stranger, it wasn't a door-to-door salesman, they would have used both the bell and knocking. He sat himself up in a child like manner, throwing his hands against the sofa and pushing himself up. Three more sharp knocks. Sherlock turned his head towards to door and started walking. It was intriguing, someone wanted his attention. It couldn't be an enemy, they would make more of an entrance, an impression. He walked down the stairs, although the walk was more of a run, his bare feet feeling the cold of the wooden stairs. Sherlock ignored this and carried on anyway. Whoever it was couldn't be important enough to get dressed for. He was in more than a sheet, and that was more than royalty got for him. He'd only ever dress if John asked him. Sherlock made his way to the door, Johns gun in hand. You could never be too careful. He opened the door, the cold air hit him causing a chill to run down his spine. He looked around, expecting some man in a suit, yet there was no one in immediate view. Maybe a childish prank he thought to himself, ducking his head outside, not wanting to brave the cold fully, he looked left and right down the street yet it was empty. No kids running away. Shaking his head, thinking he may have imagined it in his half asleep state, he started to close the door. Yet he stopped when he heard a cry from below him at his feet. Pausing, with the door open a crack, he listened. There it was again. A cry, not a loud one, but a child's cry none the less. He opened the door taking himself fully out this time. There was nothing, or rather, no child around. Until he felt one of his feet land on something that wasn't concrete. He stopped applying pressure at the slightest difference in material. Even Sherlock Holmes could never harm a child.

He looked day, and was mesmerised by what he saw. A young child, no older than a year was wrapped up in nothing more than blankets, slowly waking from its sleep. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with a child, he'd never handled one before, but he knew he couldn't leave it out in the cold. He picked it up awkwardly, holding it arms length as if it would harm him, he turned back into the flat, shutting the door behind him with his foot. Sherlock carried the child upstairs, making sure to keep it as far from him as he could. Some form of law stopped him for examining children so he had no background on them. He felt unsafe. When he got upstairs he sat the child on the sofa where he was relaxing before it showed up. Sherlock sat himself on the coffee table and stared at the child, his fingers pressed lightly together, his chin resting upon them. He studied the child, deducing its background, age, gender. Yet he could not determine why it was left here.

Sherlock stared at the child, he was used to people looking away and leaving him when he did this. The childs presence made him uncomfortable. Yet all the child did was stare back and smile, Sherlock smiled back before he had timed to catch himself. He felt himself drawn to the child. Thinking about how to handle this, he realised John would be more prepared in this field.

John, I have a problem –SH

John was sat in his office when he received the text, watching the clock ticking away. It had been a long day. Opening the text he laughed, expecting Sherlock to have blown something up again. He couldn't let Sherlock know he wouldn't be mad. He was the responsible one. John thought carefully about his reply, before typing it out at a much slower speed than Sherlocks.

What is it now Sherlock, have you blown the microwave up again? –JW

He laughed again, checking the time. One day Sherlock would stop blowing up the apartment, and he wouldn't have to work half as often as he did. He would actually be able to spend time with Sherlock instead of just seeing him on cases. His phone rang almost instantly, John never stopped being amazing at the speed in which Sherlock could use any gadget.

No, No. Someone left a baby on our doorstep –SH

Subtlety was never Sherlocks strong point. John expected something to be happening soon, everything had been to normal in his life, but a baby? He sat back in his chair shocked. They would have to go to the police instantly, he would have to go home, there was no trusting Sherlock with a child when he could barely look after himself.

A...A What? –JW

Sherlock was too busy with the child to pay attention to his phone. He could see something behind those glazed eyes that most children didn't have. He wished John would hurry up.