AN: Hello, everybody! Thank you for stopping by to read this story! This is part 1 of my (as of now) 6 part arc. It picks up from where season 3 left off (here there be SPOILERS. You've been warned). I'm currently in the process of writing part 2, The Silver Blaze. I hope you like this installment enough to continue on to the next. Please feel free to review!

Just so you all know, I'm going back and editing this story as I continue to write and develop the plot of the next installments. I'll try to time stamp each chapter after I've edited it.

Edited: 3/18/14

THE VIOLET HOUR (PART I: THE DANCING MEN)

CHAPTER 1

Request for: Childcare Provider

Age of Child: 5 months

Times needed: Weekdays 7am-9pm

Weekends: Upon request

Wages: to be negotiated

Please Provide: references, birth certificate, criminal background, fingerprints, dental records

Contact below.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked as he glanced at John from over the top of his morning paper. His breakfast, which Mrs. Hudson had brought up, lay untouched on the coffee table.

John blinked several times. Clutched in his hand was a small piece of notebook paper, which Sherlock had hastily scribbled on. John read it again... and again.

"I still don't understand what I'm looking at," he said after the third read-through.

"I thought I made that rather clear," Sherlock replied. "It's an advertisement for a nanny."

"Yes," said John. He felt a familiar twinge of irritation bubbling up in his gut. "For my child. My child is not yet old enough to be looked after by some stranger."

"Ridiculous," said Sherlock. He abruptly abandoned the pretense of reading the news flung himself to his feet to begin pacing the living room floor; the tail of his blue dressing gown billowed out behind him. "Mycroft and I had a nanny when we were three weeks old."

"You're not helping your case, Sherlock," John replied.

"One of the most dangerous criminals in history might have risen from the dead," Sherlock was going on, "and he'll get away with whatever he wants because of a babbling infant!"

"Glad to know it'll be Abby's fault when Moriarty takes over the world," said John dryly. He couldn't bring himself to be too harsh on his friend, though, as he watched Sherlock pace restlessly. He briefly wondered whether Sherlock was out of nicotine patches again. John cleared his throat and softened his tone. "So you haven't had a break, then?"

"Not one!" Sherlock swiped a pile of papers to the ground. "I don't understand. I simply don't. I saw him - I watched him bleed out in front of me."

"People have been known to fake that sort of thing before," John pointed out.

If Sherlock caught on to the jab, he didn't let it show. His pacing slowed as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Oh, we've been over this, though," said Sherlock. It sounded as if he were speaking to himself. "It doesn't matter how he did it. It only matters why he's come back. And why now? He let me spend the better part of two years dismantling his network. I tore down everything he'd worked for his entire life. Why would he sit by and watch that happen?"

"I don't understand is what he's waiting for," said John. "His face pops up on every tele in England, and then there's nothing for almost eight months. How do we know it was really him and not some blockhead using his face to scare people?"

"Oh, John," said Sherlock sadly. He stopped pacing to fix John with a very disappointed gaze. "Fatherhood really has domesticated you. All your sense of wonder, your desire for adventure, the hunger for the chase... gone."

John felt his jaw clench despite his best efforts to keep his temper in check.

"Yeah, well excuse me for wishing the world was just a bit safer now I'm responsible for something."

"I see," said Sherlock with a disdainful snort. "it hasn't domesticated you then. It's just made you an idiot."

"Right," said John, standing up. "Well, it's been lovely catching up. I'd better get back to becoming an idiot now."

"John -" Sherlock stopped his friend just as John had put one foot on the mat. His tone had gone very soft; it was a voice John rarely heard the detective use, and it made him stop short. Sherlock took a deep breath in before he continued. "I haven't been able to find anything because - well, frankly, I work better when I've got you. You're a great help to me, really."

John hesitated for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. He spun around and faced Sherlock, who was wringing his hands behind his back anxiously, eyeing John with the same air of a dog waiting for a tennis ball to be thrown.

"You rehearsed that, didn't you?" said John suspiciously.

"I'd really hoped that I wouldn't have to use it," Sherlock admitted.

John laughed. After a moment Sherlock did too.

"Right," said John, "I'll talk to Mary tonight and see what she thinks."

"Good idea," said Sherlock. He clapped his hands together and plopped himself down at the table, opening his laptop in one swift movement. "Why don't you all come 'round for breakfast tomorrow. Eight o'clock?"

"Eight?" John repeated. "In the morning?"

"Yes. That's when the first interview is."

John gawked at him.

"You already put the advertisement in!"

The corner of Sherlock's lips curved up into a smile, as if he'd been hiding some secret all along.

"Mary asked me three days ago," he confessed.

The following morning saw John, Mary, Sherlock and little Abby crowded around in the Baker Street living room as nanny after nanny walked in. Sherlock dismissed most before John could even offer them cups of tea, and still more were turned away within five minutes. One that John was particularly attached to - a cheery older woman whose husband had recently passed away - Sherlock shoved out the door just as they had begun to discuss wages.

"Murdered her husband for the life insurance policy," he spouted before John could begin to protest. "Boring."

John was so angry he didn't bother asking Sherlock how he'd deduced something like that. The doctor looked to his wife for support, but Mary only shrugged in response. It was clear she wouldn't go against what Sherlock thought.

The day dragged on, names were crossed off the list, and Abby grew fussier. Around three, Mary disappeared to Sherlock's room to try and put the baby down for a nap. Abby's cries and Mary's cooing could be heard drifting down the hall.

"How many have we got left?" John asked, rubbing his temple.

"Just one," said Sherlock absentmindedly. He was tossing resumes into a wastebasket, pausing occasionally to tear in half those who he'd obviously despised. "Violet Horner. Twenty-four. An artist looking for a day job."

"Lovely," said John. He was beginning to get a pulsing headache, and Abby's escalating screams were not helping matters. "Let's hope she's not really moonlighting as a serial arsonist or something."

"Unlikely," said Sherlock. "Though she is American, so that's... well, anyway. And she's about -" he glanced at the clock on the mantel, "-fifteen minutes late."

John sighed.

"I'm going to check on the girls."

This was code for, "I'm going to go see about shutting that baby up, now." Sherlock grunted approvingly. John exited through the kitchen, depositing empty tea cups and plates as he went, and made his way to Sherlock's room. Abby was still wailing when John opened the door. Mary was determinedly calm as she rocked her daughter slowly from side to side. An abandoned bottle lay on Sherlock's night table, half empty.

"How's it going?" John asked, closing the door behind him.

"Swimmingly," Mary replied sarcastically.

"Mind if I try?" John extended his arms.

"Knock yourself out." Mary passed the little bundle off to John. Abby fussed a little bit and began to hiccough, but her crying ceased.

"Of course," said Mary. She was pretending to be jealous, but her relief overwhelmed the playful snap. "Daddy's little girl."

"I figure I ought to get as much of this as I can," said John. "She won't like me much when she starts bringing boys home."

"That's a way off still," said Mary.

"Thirty years, at lest," said John forcefully. He gazed down at his daughter affectionately. Even in her distressed states she was the most precious thing John had ever laid eyes on. Her face was very round and full. She had Mary's soft eyes and John's straw-colored hair. As John swayed her in his arms, her eyelids began to flutter closed.

"How many more does he have lined up?" Mary asked, lowering her voice as they watched Abby drift off.

"Just one," John muttered. "But apparently she's running late, so it's not promising."

"We don't know yet," said Mary bracingly. "There might be a reasonable explanation."

"Yeah, well, she's American," he retorted, as if this settled the matter.

They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing and Mrs. Hudson's voice calling for Sherlock. Both Mary and John glanced quickly at Abby to see if she would stir. The baby twitched in her blanket, but mercifully remained unconscious.

"Here," said Mary, bringing around the car seat.

They buckled her in and covered her with the blanket before quietly sneaking out to greet the next candidate. She was a young woman with long, soft brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, dressed simply in a dark cardigan. Around her neck she wore a simple pendant. Sherlock had already seated her in the client chair and was now eyeing her carefully from his leather seat. The woman appeared to be trying very hard not to pay Sherlock any attention; she kept glancing at him awkwardly out of the corner of her eye. When John and Mary entered, she sprung from her seat, apparently relieved to interact with someone other than Sherlock. She extended her right hand, which was adorned with a sparkling silver watch.

"Hello," she said. Her accent was clipped and sharp, though her voice was very melodic. "You're the Watsons? Mr. Holmes was just telling me -"

"Yes," said John, shaking her hand. "I'm John, this is Mary, and we've just put Abby down for a nap."

"Nice to meet you," the woman replied as she shook Mary's hand too. "I'm Violet... and I apologize for being late. I'm still learning my way around. Got lost a few times."

"Where are you from?" Mary asked as they took their seats.

"Connecticut," Violet replied cordially, "close to Hartford.

"Oh, lovely," said Mary as a flicker of recognition colored her tone. "I've always thought the Northeast beautiful. What brought you to London?"

"Art," said Violet. "And a need for a change. I'm trying to open a gallery, but border control won't accept that for a work visa, so I've got three months to find a job."

"Well let's get to it, then," said John, smiling as he picked up his notebook. "Do you have experience working with children?"

"Babysitting cousins when I was a teenager," Violet replied quickly.

John nodded and scribbled this answer down.

"How old were they?"

"Three and five at the time."

Scribble.

"No experience with infants, then?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Alright," said John, scribbling, "just checking... and, are there any days or times you're not available?"

"I'm free during the day," said Violet. "Gallery showings are at night, usually -"

"You're hired," said Sherlock.

Everyone in the room jumped.

"What?" said Violet after a long silence.

"Yeah, what?" John echoed.

"She's hired," Sherlock repeated. He sounded offended that nobody else had reached the same conclusion he had.

"I've only asked two questions!" said John incredulously.

"Oh, please," said Sherlock with a roll of his eyes. "I only let you do that to make you feel better. We both know I'm doing the real interview."

"Sorry," said Violet, "what's happening?"

"She's perfectly qualified," said Sherlock. "Over-qualified, in fact."

"Over qualified?" said Mary. "She's an artist."

"An artist with two Ph. D's - one in some sort of social science, and the other having something to do with art, I presume."

Another stunned silence. Violet narrowed her eyes in Sherlock's direction, her mouth slightly agape.

"How did you -?" Violet began.

"Don't -" John warned.

Too late.

"-how did I know?" Sherlock finished, talking very rapidly now. "Glad you asked. First, when you mentioned babysitting your cousins you said 'when I was a teenager.' Most people, Americans especially, refer to stages of their life by indicating what year they were in school. But you didn't say, 'When I was in high school,' suggesting that you didn't have an average academic experience. Could have been home-schooled, but you find it easy enough to socialize with strangers, so college at a young age looks more likely.

"Next, there's your clothes: all bought within the last year, meaning you just recently re-did your entire wardrobe. Probably your things were getting too small and too worn - you hardly ever got new things as a child because your family was more concerned with you making grades than having you look nice, but you had to impress a lot of posh people - you're wearing all designer brands - no - designer knock-offs. You can't afford the real things, you're an artist. But you are wearing two very expensive items - your watch and your necklace, given to you in the last five years to mark two important occasions. Jewelry's a common present for graduations, hence two degrees.

"Then there's the fact that you've chosen to seek employment as a nanny rather than a cashier, accountant, or other mundane job, indicating you prefer social work. You have experience with it, probably one of your degrees is a social science. And the other has to do with art, being that you are an artist."

A long silence followed before Violet muttered, "Wow."

"He does that," said John.

"Was I right?" asked Sherlock. "What are your degrees in?"

"Behavioral Psychology and Art Therapy," Violet replied blankly.

"You didn't put that on your resume," said John, dumbfounded.

"I usually don't like to show off to people I don't know," Violet responded.

"Intriguing," said Sherlock. He pressed his palms together in a prayer-like position as he surveyed Violet intently. "Genius usually loves an audience. Also interesting that you didn't delve into a math or natural science. Most child prodigies excel in those areas."

"I have to make sure you have more puzzles to work out, don't I?" said Violet dryly. "So when do I start?"

"Immediately," said Sherlock, springing to his feet. "Someone will be round your flat later this afternoon to childproof it, and John will drop the little darling off first thing tomorrow morning. Goodbye."

He ushered Violet out of the flat, ignoring her protests.

"We'll be in touch about wages!" Mary called before Sherlock had completely shut the door.

"What - wages?" John was looking between the door, Sherlock, and Mary. "I did not agree to this! I barely know her!"

"I already told you everything you need to know," said Sherlock. He and Mary exchanged glances.

"Why does nobody ask for my opinion!" cried John. "I think I should have a say, Abby's my daughter!"

"John," said Mary gently, "It's been a month since I went back to work. You've been cooped up with her for ages. I think it's time you and Sherlock get back in business."

"I couldn't agree more," said Sherlock. John could practically smell the childlike glee oozing from the man's pores.

"You are not a part of this," John snapped. Then he rounded on Mary. "Are you saying it's not good for me to spend time with her?"

"You're a wonderful father," said Mary. "You should learn how to do that and have a bit of fun."

She winked at him, then at Sherlock.

"I'll take Abby and get out of here," she said as she rose to her feet. "You boys need to find yourself a case."

John watched her leave with his mouth hanging slightly open. Sherlock was beaming at him. As soon as Mary and Abby had left, Sherlock sprang into action.

"Now then," he said, opening his laptop. "What do you think of this title for your blog: 'The Mystery of the Dancing Men'?"