A/N: Thanks for all the follows, favorites and reviews! They are very much appreciated! Sorry that it took so long to get this up, but I attended a writer convention this weekend and I didn't have much time. That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's quite a bit longer! :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but Gabriel.

Looking down at Gabriel, Sherlock felt a shiver down into the marrow of his bones. It was truly like looking into the past and seeing yourself at age five. In fact, he could barely see any of Irene whatsoever. Perhaps the scattering of freckles across his nose or the way the corner of his mouth pricked up just a little when he spoke, but otherwise Gabriel could have been a clone. "There are several of us living here and we aren't really equipped for children. So you'll have to amuse yourself and try not to bother anyone…"

"Sherlock," John started. "He's just a kid. I'm sure he won't be much of a bother."

"Still. I have no use for children who can't be seen and not heard." His own stomach flipped a little as he heard his father's voice coming out of his mouth. He'd heard that same speech over and over as a child and had sworn he'd never use that expression. Apparently humans are doomed to grow up as copies of their parents. For good or ill. He cleared his throat and started off toward the stairs. "Up you get. Your room is this way." He reached down and picked up the small overnight bag that the boy had brought with him. "Is this all you have?"

"Yes," Gabriel replied simply. "I had to leave most stuff behind." He stood up and began to follow Sherlock up the stairs, looking back over his shoulder at John with a helpless expression, his eyes pleading for him to follow.

"Rule one: these stairs are uneven and noisy. Running down them will end in disaster. Don't do it." The words had no sooner left his lips than Sherlock stumbled on the stairs and had to steady himself with a hand on the wall. "See?" He pointed toward a room on one side of the stairs. "That's John's room. If you hear strange laughter in the middle of the night coming from behind that door, just ignore it. Whatever you do, don't open the door."

"Oi! No need to be crude," John interjected.

Sherlock paid him no mind as he crossed the hall and turned the knob at the other bedroom door. It was stiff and he had to push it hard with his shoulder before the door would open. A tiny, dark room lay behind the door and Gabriel shied from it. There was a small bed, a lamp and a little dresser that Mrs. Hudson had brought up from the basement. The furniture had once belonged to her son but she had been keen to donate it when they'd heard of Gabriel's existence the week before. He set the boy's case down on the bed and turned. "This is your room."

"Where do you sleep?" Gabriel asked.

"My room is downstairs."

"Oh. I've never had my own room before." The boy was obviously disturbed at the thought of sleeping alone. His eyes were everywhere and enormous. "At the convent, I had to stay in the room with the postulants."

"Then this should be like Heaven," John said, wiping dust from his sleeve. "A little paint and it will be perfect, right?" Gabriel shrugged.

"When someone addresses you, you answer them," Sherlock said, wincing at his father's voice once more issuing from his throat and from his own hypocrisy. Anyone who knew Sherlock was well aware that he often didn't answer.

"I guess," Gabriel replied.

"Come." Sherlock rushed past them and made his way back downstairs, assuming they would follow. They emerged in the kitchen area, cluttered with what, to an outsider, would look like Dr. Frankenstein's lab. Beakers, graduated cylinders, eye droppers and the like were strewn over every surface. Papers, notebooks, photographs and books were everywhere. "Rule two: don't touch anything in this room with the possible exception of the refrigerator. If it looks interesting, it probably is and therefore no affair of children. The stove and range are also not for you. Keep away from them." Gabriel nodded and followed Sherlock into the living room.

Mrs. Hudson and John stood there whispering and looking sadly at the boy. Sherlock knew what they were thinking. That he should have told Mycroft to find another home for Gabriel. That he would never be able to take care of a child. And why shouldn't they think that? He wasn't warm or playful. He often didn't pay attention and his life was far too frantic and violent for a small child. That was why Irene had never told him of the boy in the first place. According to her letter, she had left the boy at St. Christopher's convent when he was ten days old, realizing that she was in no position to care for him. She stated that it would have been useless to send the boy to London, knowing that he wasn't exactly 'parenting material.'

"There's a television, if you like that sort of thing. And more books than the Kensington Central Library. As long as you don't move any of the books on my desk or on the table, do what you like."

The small boy stared up at him with his round blue eyes. It was as if he were speaking some foreign language, but Sherlock didn't see the point in talking to children as if they were adorable little morons. "Oh, and rule three: never interrupt me while I'm thinking. This includes talking, jumping on things, climbing on furniture and sometimes watching telly. Sometimes I don't talk for days and other times I talk to myself." He leaned over the armchair and pulled his violin down from where it balanced on the edge of the coffeetable. "Most important rule: Never. Ever. Never touch my violin. Trust me on this. Never. Understood?" They boy nodded, still giving Sherlock that fearful stare. "Well, I think that's that, then." He patted Gabriel awkwardly on the head. He rushed to the doorway and pulled on his coat.

"Are you leaving?" Gabriel asked, his voice small and quavering.

"I have an appointment," he answered. "But don't worry. Mrs. Hudson and John will be here. Have some cocoa. Eat some...biscuits." He forced a smile as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Don't wait up."

And with that he was down the stairs and gone.

Gabriel sat down in the armchair closest to the fire, pulling his knees under his chin and hugging himself. If it was possible, he was more confused and frightened than he had been before. Though St. Christopher's had been a cold, dreary place where he'd been largely ignored, he missed it tonight. He missed the garden behind the kitchen that always smelled of rosemary. He missed the peat fire in the dining hall. He missed the sounds of the church bells every morning at sunrise. Mostly he just missed the familiarity.

"What do you like to eat, Gabriel?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I'll fix whatever you like tonight, since it's your first night here. It will be like a little celebration for you, dear!"

"I don't know," he replied with a shrug. It wasn't a lie. Gabriel honestly didn't know what he liked to eat. No one had ever asked him and everything the Sisters cooked tasted the same. Extravagant food was not Godly and therefore unnecessary. "I like apples." It was all he could think of. There had been a tree in the corner of the garden that had the sweetest apples. Some mornings while he was outside, he'd pick up some of the fallen ones and eat it before anyone could catch him. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to take them and he didn't want to be in trouble.

"Then apples you shall have, love," Mrs. Hudson chirped before disappearing down the stairs again, leaving Gabriel alone with John.

"You're in for a treat, my friend," John said. "Mrs. Hudson is an excellent cook. Sherlock's not much for eating but even he can't resist when she decides to cook."

"Is she your maid?"

John laughed. "No. Most definitely not. She's the landlady. You know, she owns the house. We rent the flat from her."

"Oh."

John looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead just grabbed the remote for the television and began flipping channels. Gabriel was silent, yet fascinated by the images flashing on the screen. Sure, he had seen telly before. The caretaker at the church had a tiny one in his little cabin on the grounds, but Gabriel had never seen one this big. Nor had he ever been allowed to watch too much. The convent didn't have anything like that. The Mother Superior had a radio that she would sometimes bring into the common room, but that was it. She said that they shouldn't concern themselves with outside entertainment. John stopped on a show where a tall, thin man with messy hair was driving a phone booth. There was lots of noise and lights and Gabriel squinted against the oppressive action. He whimpered softly and John turned to look at him.

"Don't you like Doctor Who?" John asked.

"It's kind of loud," he replied.

John smiled. "It can be, yeah." He turned the volume down and Gabriel relaxed a little, his eyes glued to the screen. He became so engrossed in the story, that he didn't notice when Mrs. Hudson returned from her flat with a tray full of food. The smell was heavenly. A sweet, spicy smell that made Gabriel's mouth water.

"All right, dears. I cooked, you set the table!"

John immediately crossed the room and began clearing the mess of experiments off the tabletop. Gabriel continued to sit, paying them little mind until John cleared his throat. "Gabriel, would you mind helping us?" The little boy nodded, sliding off the chair and going into the kitchen. "We'll need three forks and three napkins," John instructed, opening the drawer and showing him where they were. "Put one of each at every place." Gabriel very carefully set the table with utensils as John followed behind with plates and cups.

"Don't we need another?" Gabriel asked.

John and Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Sherlock won't be back in time to eat, most likely. We'll just leave some leftovers in the fridge for him."

"Why don't he eat?"

John smiled. "We're not sure, but we think he doesn't eat because he's an alien." When the boy's eyes went wide with alarm, both adults laughed again. "I'm just kidding, Gabriel. He just gets busy."

"Oh." Gabriel's eyes fell and he sat down in the chair closest and slumped over the table.

"Elbows, dear," Mrs. Hudson corrected, patting him on the arm until he sat up. She began fixing his plate with chicken and vegetables. He watched, examining each dish as it was plated up for him. "You said you liked apples, so I've made cinnamon ones. But they're awfully sweet, so you should eat the rest of your food first."

Once everyone was seated and plates were piled with food, they began to eat. Mrs. Hudson and John began to chatter about their day. It seemed that they were trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Gabriel looked at the food with trepidation, pushing it around with his fork and examining each component. It was not like the food at the convent. Everything there was bland and always the same color. He stabbed his meat with the fork and tried to pull off a bit. It didn't work very well and after a bit of a struggle, he began pulling it apart with this fingers and shoving the bites into his mouth.

"Oh… let me help you with that, mate," John said, shifting the boy's plate toward him and using his knife to cut it apart. Gabriel watched him, wondering why he was going to the trouble. He didn't mind using his hands. When John was finished and pushed his plate back toward him, Gabriel continued poking around at the bites.

"Do you like it, dear?"

Gabriel shrugged, not really knowing what to say. It had an interesting flavor, but the seasoning was more than he was used to. He didn't want to hurt Mrs. Hudson's feelings, but he wasn't sure what they wanted him to say. It was all very confusing. "I'm done," he said finally.

"Gabriel, you've hardly eaten anything," John commented. "Mrs. Hudson made all this food for you. And cinnamon apples…"

"I'm not hungry," he said. "Can I go up to my room?"

John and Mrs. Hudson looked at one another, exchanging puzzled glances. "Uhm… yeah…" John answered. "We'll just save it for you."

"Thank you," Gabriel replied, pushing back from the table.

He went up to his room, carefully stomping up the uneven stairs. He was glad to be away from everyone. Not that John and Mrs. Hudson weren't kind. Both had done everything in their power to make him feel welcome, but he couldn't help still being terrified. He opened the door on the dingy little room that had been deemed his own and began to tremble, realizing how dark it was. In the convent, there had always been a candle or lamp burning in the rooms, but it was perilously dark upstairs in 221B. He looked back over his shoulder, considering calling for John to come and turn on the light. Of course then, he'd have to talk to him and he didn't want to be a bother or seem like a baby. Gabriel was only five, but he'd never really been allowed to be a child. He was wise, too wise, even. He stepped into the room, his heart pounding in his chest. He pawed at the doorframe, hoping that the light switch was right there. He had to stand on the tips of his toes, but finally he found it.

When the room was illuminated, it wasn't any less daunting. The tiny little bed that had been made up for him looked sterile. The room was chilly, smelling of dust and mold. He wondered if this room would even seem like his own. At St Christopher's, he'd had a small bed and a locker, like the young postulants. It wasn't much, but at least when he'd curled up on the little bed, he'd felt that this one place, this tiny island, was his own. Here he had this whole room, but he felt like he wasn't supposed to touch anything. He knew that Sherlock, the man who was supposed to be his father, only allowed him to stay because he had to. Gabriel might live in his house, but it would never be his home.

He went to the window and stared out. The light outside had faded and a light rain had begun to fall, wetting the street below. Cars and people still bustled about, clutching raincoats and umbrellas. It was so busy. Gabriel wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. There was just too much. Thoughts and emotions rushed around in his head all the time and he couldn't slow them down and now he was expected to live in a place where people swarmed like bees all the time. Would he be able to learn to block them out? Would he ever be able to sleep? Would Sherlock make him go to school like the kids he'd seen in the schoolyard down the road sometimes? If cried, would it make him angry? If he was bad would this new father beat him? What if he forgot all his new rules? The questions and uncertainty swirled faster and faster until Gabriel was pulling at his hair once more. He threw himself on to the bed and began to weep quietly. He buried his face in the pillow, not wanting anyone to hear, and cried until his eyes were burning and the skin on his cheeks felt tight.

John quickly helped Mrs. Hudson clear the table and wrap up the leftovers for Sherlock and Gabriel. "You know, I'm not sure this was the best idea Mycroft ever had."

"What do you mean, dear?"

"I mean, do you think Sherlock is up for this? I know that it's the law. Once they learned of the boy's existence, they had to at least give Sherlock the option of taking him in. After all, he is his father, but Sherlock can barely take care of himself."

"You might be surprised. Sherlock's always been a little odd, but underneath he's really very kind. He puts on a good show of being an uncaring machine, but you and I both know that he's not really like that. Once you're his, once he takes you in, he'll move Heaven and Earth to protect you." She raised her eyebrow at John, offering a knowing glance. "You and I know that better than anyone."

"It's the getting him to take Gabriel in that worries me."

"Oh pish-posh… he already has. Did you look at the child? There's no denying that he's Sherlock's. I don't particularly like the idea of him having a child with that harlot, Irene Adler, but it's obvious that's what happened."

"But why wouldn't she tell him about it before?" John sighed. "You saw Sherlock's face when Mycroft told him the other night—he was shocked. She kept the secret for five years? Why?"

"Would you want to tell Sherlock a thing like that?"

John thought about it for a moment. He didn't even want to tell Sherlock when he broke a plate. "Point taken."

"Obviously she didn't think that either of them were capable of taking care of poor little Gabriel, so she left him at that convent. Now that she's gone, Gabriel is all that's left of her and despite our misgivings about her, Miss Adler was his one great love. Aside from you, anyway."

"What?" John's voice climbed an octave. Surely Mrs. Hudson didn't still believe they were a couple.

"Don't be silly, John. Sherlock does love you. Probably more than anyone else. It's not anything… you know… sexual. You accept him for all that he is, both good and bad. You've taught him so much, John. And that little boy up there is the exam." She winked and embraced John, taking her tray of empty dishes from him and going back downstairs.

John started toward the television, prepared to settle in for a quiet night. Perhaps he'd make himself a cup of tea. Before he could put the kettle on, he heard a small sound coming from upstairs. He paused, holding his breath to see if he heard it again. Surely if Mrs. Hudson had fallen on the front stairs, she'd have made a bigger noise. Another whimper sounded and John realized it was coming from upstairs. "Gabriel?" he called, starting up the steps.

The boy hadn't bothered to close his door and when John reached the top of the stairs, he could see him lying on his bed crying. "Gabriel? Are you all right?" The little boy rolled over and John could see that his eyes were swollen and red from crying. "What's the matter, mate?"

"Nothing," Gabriel replied.

"I don't think I believe that," John said, sitting down on the end of the bed. The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes on the dirty sleeve of his shirt. "Why are you crying, Gabriel?"

"I don't like it here!" the boy spat. "Everything here is different! The food is different and the house is different and everything is too big and too loud! And…" His voice trembled as more tears bubbled over his cheeks and ran down. "You and Mrs. Hudson are only nice to me because you have to be! And Sherlock hates me!" He covered his face and cried harder. John scooted closer to the little boy and, not knowing what else to do, put his arms around Gabriel's small frame and rocked him gently. The boy tensed, becoming like a statue in John's arms.

"Shush… I know it's different. It will get better, you know. And Mrs. Hudson and I are nice to you because we like you."

"No you don't! The tall man said you had to be nice to me!" He jerked away from John, not wanting to be touched.

"No, Mycroft said we had to let you live here, not that we had to be nice. We only want to be your friend, Gabriel. Sherlock too."

At the mention of his father's name, Gabriel's wails got louder. "No he doesn't! He hates me! Why else would he let my mom leave me?"

John put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Is that what you think happened? If Sherlock had known about you, he'd never have let that happen. He might be many things, but irresponsible isn't one of them. Well, not about important things anyway. You just have to give him a chance, Gabe. This is brand new for him too."

Gabriel sniffled. "Then why isn't he here now?"

"Well, Sherlock has to think about things sometimes. It's just how he is. And he needs to be alone to do that. He'll be back soon. I promise everything will be fine." John hugged the little boy again and this time, Gabe let him.