A/N: This is a continuation of my speculative AU. Again, slow start, but this is more to set the scene than anything else. This time, the story is based around "The Adventure of The Red-Headed League" as well as the Granada interpretation, "The Red-Headed League" episode 2 of series 1. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Granada. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"John. ...John? John!" the voice of my flatmate calls from the sitting room of good old 221b. I sort of stumble my way out of bed, glancing at the clock to see that it's about 9:15. I sit up and see that little Sherlock - my son - is not in his cot. Sherlock - the boy's namesake - must have him downstairs. That would explain his pleas for help and the crying.

I sigh, drag on my maroon dressing gown I got as a wedding gift from Mycroft a year ago, and head downstairs.

"What is it?" I ask. Sherlock is holding the boy at arm's length with a look of disgust.

"He won't stop crying! I don't understand it. How can something so small produce such volume?" Typical comment, Sherlock.

"Well, for one thing, you're holding him wrong. You've seen me hold him. If you do the same, he might be a little more agreeable." Sherlock gives me a look that plainly says "You've got to be joking."

"What are you even doing with him in the first place? If anyone but you had woken me up, I'd have thought he was kidnapped. Not the best feeling for a new parent. Especially in light of recent events..."

"I was trying to ensure he didn't wake you. I saw that he was about to cry, so I took him down here to figure out why he was going to cry," he explains.

"How did you know he was about to cry?"

"I saw his lip twitching and his eyes were becoming watery." I sigh, place my hand over my face and try again.

"Okay, let's try this then: How did you know he was about to cry?" I say, trying to make the point that I don't know how he managed to be in my room to find out.

"Oh, that. I was watching you sleep." I stare at him for a good half a minute or so, dumbfounded.

"You were what?" I ask. Watching me... God, he really does act like a stalker sometimes.

"Watching you. More, watching out for you," he elaborates. Correction: an overly protective stalker. I sigh again, scratching the back of my head. I walk over and take my son in my arms. Thankfully, this is enough to get him to stop crying. This time.

"There, there, little one. Uncle Sherlock was just trying to make sure you were fine. That's all," I whisper to him. My flatmate looks at me with a questioning look.

"'Uncle Sherlock?' Really?" he asks me. I nod. He then starts sitting cross-legged on the couch, rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands under his chin in his usual "deep in thought" pose. He glances up at me for a second as I'm bouncing little Sherlock. After a pause, he finally speaks up. "I... suppose I could get used to that," he says. I smile.

"Good. Then, while I have my arms full of infant, here, would you please put on a pot of coffee?"

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

After John and I have woken up a bit and the other Sherlock has been fed, John gets ready to run some errands, but not before gathering the dirty laundry to be taken to the laundromat. Once again, the baby is left to me while he does this, and once again, it's crying.

"How do I stop it?" I ask as John's gathering clothes.

"Hold him properly, Sherlock!" he calls from his room. Easier said than done. "Do you know how?"

"Yes, of course I know how. I've seen you do it, as you earlier stated. I'm just not a fan of physical contact." John peeks out from the stairwell at this.

"Oh, please. On your first day here, you let both myself and Mrs. Hudson hug you, for God's sake! And, you hugged back, in a way. I don't think holding a baby should be much of a problem for you." Fine. Be that way. I stare at the child, sigh and bring him closer to me. I then fold my arms as John does when holding him.

"There, I'm holding him properly. He's still crying, though."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious, I can hear him from here," John says, arms full of laundry.

"What else is there to do? He's not hungry, since he just ate. No need to change him, so what is there to do?" I ask. Childcare is one of the things I don't have a folder for in my hard drive. Maybe I ought to add one for John's sake.

"Well, you could try music. Babies like music."

"I would play my violin if I didn't have an 'armful of infant' as you called it earlier."

"Sing then." Two worse words have never been commanded of me.

"I don't sing," I assure John. He looks skeptical.

"You? Don't sing? With such a smooth speaking voice as you've got? Good Lord, it's like a jaguar swallowed a cello!" Now it's my turn to look skeptical.

"I don't see what jungle cats and cellos have to do with my voice. And besides, just because my speaking is eloquent-sounding doesn't mean I can carry a tune."

"Want me to sing, then?"

"No. Absolutely not. I've heard you sing when you're in the bath. Atrocious." John scoffs at me.

"Oh, gee, thanks," he says dryly, and starts to leave the room. As soon as he clears the door, I sigh and decide to submit myself to fate. I clear my throat, take a deep breath...

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are."

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

I can hardly believe it. Is... Sherlock Holmes actually singing? A nursery rhyme, no less? I put my ear closer to the door, which is still ajar, to try to hear.

"Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky," he continues. It seems he's trying to rush through the song, as if he doesn't really want to do it.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are." And then all sounds stop.

My God, he did it. He actually comforted a kid. Is the apocalypse coming today? Thought that wasn't 'til December.

"You're still out there, John, aren't you?"

I snap to attention, dropping a couple of socks as I do so. I pick them up and peek back into the sitting room.

"Yeah. Sorry." Sherlock gives me one of his quicker smiles as he holds little Sherlock. It's actually a nice scene. Little Sherlock is practically drifting to sleep as Sherlock holds him. Sherlock's even bouncing him a bit as I do.

It looks right. Him holding my son like that. He looks like a parent.

Of course, he'd probably chuck his skull at my head if I told him that.

Either that, or die laughing.