The first thing he heard as he walked through the door and began to ascend the staircase at 221B Baker Street was the angry cries of Rosamund Mary.

As he reached the top and stood with his brows furrowing and bringing forth the creases between his eyebrows, he was met by Mrs. Hudson, exiting the hallway with a screaming infant and a weary expression on her face, looking as though she were nearing tears herself.

"Oh thank God," she said gratefully. "Another adult. She won't stop crying and I can't seem to soothe her no matter what I try. Here, maybe you'll have better luck," she pleaded, handing the wailing infant over to him.

He reached out to take her, bringing her to rest against his chest. He bounced her gently in his arms, hoping the subtle movements would calm her, but Rosie Watson would have none of that feeble attempt to appease her anger. When it was clear that that was not going to be the method that worked this time, he brought his face down close to her ear, grimacing only barely, reminding himself that he still had perfectly good hearing on the other side of his head and he could probably get by with that.

He began to murmur a soft song. It wasn't a song for children specifically, just one he'd happened to hear somewhere in the background of that particular day, so it was the first one that had come to mind. He knew from experience that it wasn't the words or the melody, it was the tone and volume of his voice that might do the trick. They all had their ways of appeasing the beast that was Rosie's temper, and this was his way – tried and true.

Reluctant, almost shy in fact, to share the moment with anyone but Rosie, however, he made sure to keep his face close and his voice as soft and gentle as the little hand that suddenly settled on the strong curve of his neck that peeked out from under his open collar. His free hand, cradling her head as he had sung to her, followed it and supported it as it slowly found a resting spot under his chin – the young girl quiet now and no longer harbouring inconsolable displeasure.

He considered handing her off to Mrs. Hudson, but the stern look of "Don't you dare disturb that child" from the older woman made him think better of it. So instead, he walked slowly around the small living room, testing the sincerity of the baby's slumber and enjoying the one unexpected moment of the day that he hadn't realized he needed so badly, to banish the clouds that had until now, brought a dim overcast to his day.

Finally, he decided, again from experience, that Rosie was settled enough to attempt to put her down in the nursery, and carried her carefully down the hallway. As he reached her crib, he dared a whisper-soft kiss on her temple, and found to his relief that she was, indeed, sleeping soundly. Looking over to smile briefly at a very relieved Mrs. Hudson, he set her down, having determined by that last test that she wasn't likely to wake up in the immediate future.

He found himself wincing from the pain that visited him now and then, when the weather was just so.

It had been a long time since that bullet had greeted him so rudely, tearing into his flesh and altering it forever, leaving behind remembrances of the dubiously auspicious event that could be both seen, and felt. It was both a grim reminder of the fragility of human life, and the resiliency of the human body and spirit.

The dull ache that seemed to come from that particular deeply seated spot where the bullet had abruptly come to rest was a reminder that nobody was immune to time, nor were they invincible. But most of all, in spite of the flash of reflexive instinct and utter lack of fear (or, in retrospect, was it an utter lack of common sense?) that had put him in harm's way to begin with, it was a reminder that nobody was bullet proof.

With a sigh of resignation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small bottle of over-the-counter painkillers that he carried with him. He looked at his takeaway cup, nearly empty, and with a frown of regret, popped the plastic lid off. He had really been hoping to savour the last couple of pulls from the cup, because even though the warmth had long since abandoned it, it was still a reminder of something that had hit the spot when he most needed it, and even though it was now stone cold, it had still been hitting the spot.

Using up what remained all at once to appease the old enemy that had taken up permanent residence in his body seemed a waste of a good simple pleasure.

But it couldn't be helped, not if he was going to get through the rest of the day with relatively little physical discomfort. He hated to be slowed down by such a seemingly insignificant adversary. He could only ignore it for so long before it would begin to scream at him, demanding his attention and refusing to allow him to carry on with his day, undistracted.

So, bringing his hand up to pop the tablets into his mouth, he raised the other and emptied the cup, tilting his head back momentarily to allow the cool liquid to usher them down his esophagus.

Now, all he need do was wait for the soothing effects of the medication to take hold. He realized in a short burst of minor epiphany that the painkillers would sooth his old wounds in much the same way that the hot cup of takeaway coffee had soothed his spirit.

Suddenly, it seemed, the last drops of his simple pleasure hadn't been wasted after all.

He approached the door of the pub, giving a quick glance down the street to look for the two friends who were going to be meeting him here. They had a particularly perplexing case to occupy themselves with today, and he was looking forward to nursing a pint as he met with his old cronies.

As he walked in, he spotted the table in the corner, the one they usually sat at when they chose this place as one of many familiar places to put their heads together, and smiled to himself with relief that it was unoccupied. He nodded with a grateful grin at the barmaid, stopping momentarily on his way past as she gave him a smile and asked, "The usual?"

He was familiar to her, and she knew that when he walked in and made a beeline for that back table, it would be an order for three, no matter who or how many of the trio had arrived first. She knew from experience that this was going to be an informal meeting of minds more than a simple recreational rendezvous, so the barmaid made a mental note to top their glasses as full as she could, so as to delay interrupting them to ask if they needed their second yet.

Meetings between the three men always took in two drinks each, never more. She looked forward to keeping a "strictly professional" eye on the three incredibly handsome blokes, in the name of customer service, of course. They certainly weren't a hard chore to look at.

The one with the dark unruly curls and what was surely the finest bone structure known to man was definitely a looker. He was quite possibly the most uniquely handsome man she'd ever seen, from his cat-shaped tri-coloured eyes, that were sometimes blue, and sometimes green – but always with flecks of gold – to the cheekbones she could stare at indefinitely. She knew from the papers who she was. She wondered wistfully if she would ever need his services for anything.

The other one, with the neat sandy hair that had only just begun to show signs of silver, and the kind face, had a gentle and comforting look about him, and eyes that held a history that dwelled in both darkness, and light. She realized that there were times when she couldn't decide exactly what colour they were, because much like the other bloke, they seemed to change - so she settled on dreamy, beautiful dark blue. When she had found out shortly after they had started coming into the pub who he was, and that he was a GP, she wasn't the least bit surprised, and made a note to find out where his clinical practice was located. Everyone got sick at some point, after all.

The third one sometimes came in looking world-weary, frustrated, and stubbly. Other times, he appeared clean shaven and rejuvenated, his expressive dark chocolate eyes conveying enough lightness of spirit to effectively erase the fine lines he had earned through the years. Either way, he was an exceptionally handsome one no matter what shape he appeared to be in when he came in. She knew his name as well – her years at the pub had at times required calling the coppers for some reason or another, and on occasion, he had been the DI on duty to attend. She wondered how he had looked before his hair had turned him into a bona fide silver fox, and thought that surely he must be aging like a fine wine if he still looks this good now.

She couldn't decide who was better looking of the three – Holmes, Watson, or Lestrade – and finally settled on an agreement to disagree with herself. It usually depended upon her mood anyway, and which one of the three smiled at her first, or opened their mouths to speak to her. All three of them had been blessed with incredibly sexy voices. Sometimes, she found herself lingering at the next table, clearing it away and wiping it down with more attention to detail than was probably strictly necessary, just to listen in on those voices.

Unaware of the barmaid's assessment of him and his pending companions, he took his place and pulled out his phone.

"Royal Oak, waiting" he tapped out, hitting send. Scrolling down through his text message conversations he chose the second, repeating the message.

He spent the 10 minute wait on their arrival flipping through the information he had gathered himself, organizing it in his mind so as best to present his findings in their collaborative efforts towards the solving of this particular mystery.

When he looked up, he found his companions had arrived, pulling out their chairs and settling themselves in without further adieu.

He smiled at them in greeting, and as happened every time, he wasn't sure which he enjoyed more – the collaboration on a case, or the perfectly practical and valid excuse to spend an hour or two in his favourite pub with his two best mates.

He sat, lost in thought. It had been a good day. His body was tired but his mind was wide awake and rejuvenated. He was looking forward to the cup of tea that had been offered to him, a glorious way to wrap up a glorious day.

Sherlock looked up as Mrs. Hudson stood in front of him. "Sherlock?" she said, smiling. She held a cup and saucer in one hand, and a plate of ginger nuts in the other.

He had been sitting with his hands in their familiar steeple under his chin, organizing the shelves in his mind palace. Today they were a good place to visit. He entered the room where he stored his closed cases files, basking in the sunlight pouring in, warming his pale skin and setting it aglow in a manner to match the lightness of his spirit this day.

He searched around for the right cabinet, because even a storage room that existed only in the mind needed to be organized alphabetically. Sherlock's physical existence might dwell in organized chaos, but his mind palace was kept immaculately neat. His eyes fell upon the right cabinet, and he strolled over to it with a bounce in his step.

Mrs. Hudson's voice pulled him out of his thoughts just as he had closed the drawer, after putting away the file he had held in his hands. Sherlock gazed up at her and and smiled back, unsteepling his hands, the expression of polite gratitude reaching his eyes and making them sparkle.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said with a contented grin, reaching out to take the offered cup, and relieving her without delay of the plate of his favourite biscuits. "You'll be joining me, I hope?"

SSSSSSSSS

Greg stood by his patrol car, leaning up against it with his hands in his coat pockets. He looked off into the distance, noting that the headache he'd had earlier had vanished without a trace, seemingly on its own. A small smile played around the corners of his mouth as he thought about how the day had gone.

"Greg?" Donovan said. "They were out of sugar, hope that's okay." She stood smiling, satisfied herself with the successes of their efforts, holding the takeaway cup out towards him.

Greg grinned crookedly at her. "Thanks, Sally," he said, taking the cup from her offering hand. "I'm cutting back on my sugar intake anyway, no worries," he chuckled.

Taking a sip from the cup, only having slightly cooled between the nearby shop and where he was parked, he returned his gaze back into the distance. Donovan knew from years working at his side that he was basking in a success, letting it settle into a spot in his old copper's spirit that he could easily find again when a day was going sideways, and he needed to remind himself of the victories.

GGGGGGGGG

"Dr. Watson?" the nurse said, standing in the doorway. In her hands she held John's favourite mug, steaming with the hot steeped brew it held. It was the mug with a mosaic of photos on it that Molly and Sherlock had given him for his last birthday. They had used a simple photo editing program to create a piece of photo art, snapshots that included candids from his wedding, and Rosie's Christening… bringing together images of happy times that was sure to warm sooth his heart as well as whatever beverage it held would warm his hands and belly.

It was the mug that John liked best when his day had become frustrating, because it was a reminder of the people who meant the most to him – for everyone was on it, from Mrs. Hudson to Greg Lestrade, Sherlock, Molly, Mary, and of course several images of Rosie. But, on occasion, he would use it when the day had gone exceptionally well, and he had been able to give good news to nearly all of his succession of patients.

Some days, it was good to be a doctor, and this was one of those days. Sitting back in his desk chair, elbows on the arms and legs stretched out in front with his ankles crossed, he grinned to himself, grateful for this day that had reminded him why he wanted to become a doctor in the first place.

"Thank you, this is just what I need to wrap up this glorious day. Join me, Siobhan?" he invited, as he reached up to take the offered mug. "It's been a good day, I'd like to enjoy it with a little bit of clinical shop talk. Rehash the successes as it were," he said laughing softly.

Siobhan raised her eyebrows approvingly, and turned to retrieve a cup of her own.

JJJJJJJJJ

Author's Note: Close friends are often alike in many ways, and as individuals, some of the things they do or the way in which they do them, can be common to them. I began to form a short story in my head this morning that might describe some of the random day-to-day actions and experiences of any one of our trio of crime-fighters – Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Greg Lestrade. While Greg hasn't had nearly as much canon exposure as Sherlock and John, of course, I have written this under a couple of assumptions. Firstly, the assumption that Greg probably has experience dealing with babies, (based on comments to John near the beginning of "The Six Thatchers", he seemed to be able to relate) and as a friend and frequent "official business" visitor to 221B, likely has had many occasions of holding Rosie and interacting with her. Secondly, the reasonable assumption that in the course of his decades-long career with NSY, it's quite likely that Greg has taken at least one superficial bullet in the line of duty. So, with that having being said, the sections are deliberately meant to be non-specific to who is actually being portrayed, with the final section bringing them together as a trio of mates who are in many ways, kindred spirits.