An AU of my AU. This totally pointless bit of fluff was inspired by my two-year-old granddaughter attempting to pronounce the name "Sherlock" and failing most amusingly.

000

The sudden weight on his leg was the first he noticed that his young charge was up and about. Sherlock tore his attention away from his microscope and peered under the kitchen table to see the little blond head and two little fists settled on his lap.

"Good morning, Ian," Sherlock said. The two and a half year old rolled his head back and forth in a lethargic 'no'. "I see you have inherited your mother's wake-up skills," the detective observed wryly.

The tiny shoulders heaved in a sigh much too big for such a little body. Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. Ian Watson might wake up like his mother, but he sighed like an exact clone of his father. Sherlock laid a hand on the boy's head and carefully scooted his chair away from the kitchen table, successfully bringing the child out from beneath it. Ian took this as an invitation and clambered sleepily onto his uncle's lap. Now Sherlock could no longer reach his microscope. He was trapped.

It was not an unpleasant trap, however. In the last two years, he had learned a great deal from this remarkable little human. For example, he had learned that the trust of a child was a precious thing that even he was resolved never to take for granted or disappoint. The tousled blond head that rested over his heart had long since made him desire and determine deep inside himself to prove worthy of that trust; to be the sort of man that this little boy believed him to be. It was a feeling he'd never had before in his life, and he wasn't sure he liked it. The responsibility was enormous and daunting. But it was there, all the same, and he knew it wasn't going away. He was hooked for life.

Sherlock had been tasked with minding Ian on many occasions in the past two years, but this was the first time he'd been solely responsible for the child for more than a few hours at a time. John and Mary had planned this much-needed getaway weekend for months, only to find at the last minute that Molly was called upon to work overtime and Mrs. Hudson had injured her hip and was incapable of dealing with an active three-year-old. Sherlock had offered his services, and at length was able to convince his friends that he could take care Ian with a bit of help from Mrs. Hudson. He and Ian had had a marvellous time the previous day, playing games, reading books, and sorting through Sherlock's skull collection.

"Aren't you going to speak to me this morning, Ian?" Sherlock inquired, amused.

Ian shook his head.

"Are you troubled about something?"

Ian hesitated, then nodded.

"Had a bad dream, did you?" Sherlock deduced. A great sigh. "Would you care to tell me what it was about?"

Ian pulled a deep breath, then ventured, "Gwendo's bad."

In retrospect, Sherlock considered that perhaps Beowulf was inappropriate material for a two-year-old's bedtime story. Now it was time for damage control. "You're right, Ian, Grendel was bad. But Beowulf stopped him from hurting anyone else, didn't he? Now Grendel is gone and can't hurt anyone else."

"Dad could beat Gwendo," Ian maintained.

"Oh, that would be easy for your Dad," Sherlock agreed heartily. "I've seen your Dad defeat creatures much more frightening than Grendel."

"Cabbies," Ian nodded knowingly, and Sherlock smirked. He might not, perhaps, have been wise in telling Ian that particular story, but it had been fun.

Ian thought a moment. "You could beat Gwendo, too, Sh'ock," he generously assured his uncle.

Sherlock smiled. He had long since reconciled himself to Ian's slurred mispronunciation of his name, although he did not appreciate the perverse delight that certain people took in it. "Do you think so?" he asked with uncharacteristic modesty.

Ian nodded, then changed the subject abruptly, apparently ready to move on past his nightmare. "When is Mum and Dad comin' home?"

Sherlock had to stop himself from reflexively correcting the boy's grammar. 'His vocabulary is prolific for his age, Sherlock,' Mary had told him. 'The grammar and pronunciation will come along in time. Be patient with him.' Instead, he chose to address apparent memory lapses. "You have asked me this question thirteen times since they left yesterday morning. What has the answer been every time?" he prompted.

"Tea-time tomorrow," Ian sighed. "That's for-evo, Unco Sh'ock."

"No it isn't. We'll have such fun, the time will go by like that," Sherlock snapped fingers encouragingly.

Ian looked up into Sherlock's face and crinkled his blue eyes in thought. "Is firteen too many times to ask?" he inquired. His uncle's conscience smote him. How many times had a young Sherlock been scolded for asking too many questions?

"You can never ask too many questions, Ian. Ask as many questions as you like, as many times as you like," he assured the child.

Ian rewarded him with a sunny smile that was an exact replica of John's. He slid down to the floor and held up his hands proudly. "I can count to firteen," he announced.

"Can you? Well, show me then!" Sherlock encouraged him.

Ian started out quickly, counting off on his fingers. "One-two-free-fo-fife," he slurred, then slowed down. "Sick, seveh, nate, nine, ten." Now he had run out of fingers and hesitated. "Twelf, firteen," he concluded. Sherlock nodded agreeably.

"Very well done, Ian. You did one to ten perfectly. But I believe that if you review your work, you will find that you inadvertently left out a number. Can you think which one it is?"

Ian's face screwed up in intense thought, then he frowned. "I don't wike aweven," he objected.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "I don't blame you," he intoned. "It's a troublesome number, but it does serve a purpose. If you skip it, your count will not be accurate."

"Okay," Ian nodded. "Unco Sh'ock, when's breakfast?"

"Hmm," Sherlock looked at the paper Mary had firmly affixed to his cupboard door with a steak knife. "Feeding you regular meals is on list your Mum gave me. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Cake!" Ian exclaimed, chuckling at his little joke.

"Oh, you've been talking to Mycroft again, haven't you?" Sherlock pretended to sigh.

"Mum baked a cake for Myc'off, but he didn' share," Ian informed him, clearly aggrieved.

"That rascal!" Sherlock declared. "Well, if your Mum had baked me a cake, I would certainly share it with you. However, since, sadly, she did not, you must make a different choice for breakfast."

"Jam," the child suggested hopefully.

Sherlock's eyes twinkled at the boy. "On toast, or out of the jar with a spoon?" he asked.

Ian laughed joyfully. "Toast! Mum says on'y on toast!"

"Well, your Mum is always right, isn't she? Why don't you sit here and sort out my skull collection while I prepare it?"

Ian sat on the floor by the coffee table, shuffling the different skulls about and naming them. "Mice," he began, while Sherlock found the bread.

"One is called a mouse," Sherlock corrected without thinking. "Very good. Try a harder one."

"Cat," Ian declared. "Bunny. Fox. Rat." He piled them on top of each other like blocks and giggled.

"Go and wash now, Ian," Sherlock told him. "It's almost ready." Ian rushed off to the washroom while Sherlock poured a mug of milk and spread jam thickly over the toast.

While Ian sat on one side of the kitchen table and stuffed toast and jam into his mouth, Sherlock sat on the other side, resuming his work with his microscope. A sticky, muffled voice broke the silence. "Can I see?"

Mary's admonition notwithstanding, Sherlock could not let this error slide without addressing it. "Of course you can see, Ian. You have eyes, haven't you?" he said dryly.

Ian giggled and put jam-covered hands over his eyes.

"I believe the question you are reaching for is: 'May I see?'" his uncle continued.

"MAY I see!" Ian crowed happily. Sherlock grabbed flannel, dampened it, and cleaned the jam from his messy charge. Then he set the excited child on his lap and helped him look into the microscope.

"Squiggoes!" pronounced Ian, clapping his hands.

Sherlock's phone then signalled a text. "Is Papa Gweg," Ian predicted presciently. And it was. Soon Sherlock was rushing to dress both himself and his nephew to head out to the bank, which Lestrade reported had been mysteriously robbed in the night.

TBC