Annabelle was crawling along the floor of 221B.

Her chubby legs were sliding across the floor with a squeakish sort of noise; the sort of noise that Sherlock Holmes would usually despise. But Annabelle was quite different; a replica of his former, more younger self. A giant cluster of DNA with long, curly, dark hair. Mrs. Hudson had just carried her out of her bedroom when she had heard her crying and set her on the floor of the sitting room.

Annabelle couldn't speak yet; she couldn't even walk. And although she could make a few noises (mostly gurgling and cute little hiccups that made Sherlock light up like a Christmas tree) Annabelle was already quite lively, much like Sherlock. She would find herself in the most bizarre of situations; for instance, the other day John had found her in the midst of the kitchen in a circle of sugar of which she tore open from the bottom cabinet. Sherlock and John decided right then and there to finally baby-proof the flat.

John entered the scene with a gloomy expression but as soon as he saw his daughter playing with a pair of keys his expression immediately lightened. He scooped up Annabelle in his arms and kissed her on the cheek.

"Hello, Ms. Annabelle." He cooed, cradling her in both arms. He bounced her up and down and then sat down on his chair, facing Sherlock who was leaning over his desk with both hands holding his head.

John faced his daughter. "What did you and daddy do today, hmm?" Of course the question wasn't directed atAnnabelle but Sherlock, rather, who acted as if he hadn't heard him.

John repeated his question. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around, his face strained but then relaxed and walked towards John and Annabelle. When his long legs reached them both he kissed John on the lips and then made a motion for Annabelle who reached out her pudgy hands for her him.

Sherlock looked back at his daughter and smiled brightly; of all the darkness in the world this was something he clung to. The hope of his daughter and the warmth of her tiny embrace. She looked so much like him and a bit of Irene (who was their surrogate) and though Sherlock wished she could have somehow acquired any of John's traits, he liked to think that somehow, in some magical way, she received his proper looks. She was a strong specimen for her age; she lifted herself easily off the floor not long after she was born.

She would get the intelligence of Sherlock though; he was convinced of this. Though, he must say, Irene was not as unintelligent as most of the people he's come across. For Irene to carry John and Sherlock's child was no challenge; she had finally gotten out of the business of her 'dominatrix persona' and decided to settle down. Besides, she'd always wanted a niece.

Sherlock had her hitched against his left thigh and wrote something down on a piece of paper with his right hand before John came up behind him and kissed him on the neck.

Annabelle made a bit of a gurgling noise in her throat. She should be talking at her age but she isn't. Sherlock likes to say it's because of, "-how smart she is. No one would be able to grasp her intellect." whereas John thinks it's simply because people age differently.

Sherlock continues to coddle his daughter and John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist. It is quite a lovely night in at 221B.