"What?" asked John, staring down at the girl like John had never seen a little girl before.

"This girl is Sherlock's daughter and I've come to bring her to her father," reinforced Lestrade.

"Um, I'm sorry, but Sherlock doesn't have any sort of emotion… or romances or relationships… at least, not any positive ones," stuttered John. Sherlock had gone back to ignoring everyone and looking into his microscope. "Why are you bringing her here, anyway? You're a detective inspector, you don't bring orphans to their parents."

"Nobody else would do it. Nobody really wants to talk to Sherlock if they can help it."

"And how did they find out Sherlock was the father, exactly?"

"Birth certificate. There's only one man I know who could get away with signing a legal document S.H. and get away with it. That and Ms. Adler left her to him in her will."

"Ms. Adler, Sherlock, you knew that women before the case? Well enough to-"

"John, that's none of your concern."

"I'm afraid it is my concern, considering I'll be stuck living with your daughter too!"

"I never said she was my daughter."

"You never said she wasn't!"

"She's not my daughter."

"Really, because Lestrade sure seems to think she is!"

"And as we both well know, Lestrade is often wrong. But it doesn't matter; she can stay here for a while."

"What, so you're owning up to it now! Do you know what is involved in taking care of a kid Sherlock!" John turned to Lestrade, "and do really think Sherlock can take care of one! You guys are both crazy!"

"Well, Sherlock is the only family she's got and he said he'd take her, so you go talk to your flat mate," and with that, Lestrade left.

"Sherlo-"

"Go sit down, I'll be over in a minute," said Sherlock. John went and sat over in his chair. Sherlock went to go sit on the couch. Both John and Sherlock stared at each other for a minute before either on spoke.

"She's a case, John. I know what this looks like, but it's not that. Someone's trying to get this girl and me off his back. I think it's Moriarty."

"What?"

"John, don't you think I'd remember if she was actually my daughter?"

"Yes-"

"So why do you still not believe me?"

"No Sherlock, I do believe you it's just-"

"No you don't believe me. I can tell because you won't meet my eyes, but there's tension in your neck trying to keep you from letting your head fall in what you feel is defeat, a habit probably reinforced in Afghanistan. You've also pressed your hand into your thigh to keep it from shaking. You're trying not to put it into a fist because you don't like it when I comment about your clenched fist. I also know that-"

"Sherlock, that's enough. You're right. I don't believe you. Now shut up about it."

"I'm keeping the girl because-"

"You're not a very good liar. Just stop Sherlock. Send the girl back to a home or wherever she's been. Send her somewhere that adults will be able to pay attention to her. Where they aren't running off at the last minute solving murder mysteries."

"John, if she was my daughter, would you let her stay?"

"No. Our lifestyle isn't cut out for a child. I don't think it's a good idea."

"She's a seven year old, John. She'll probably be alright."

"Sherlock, don't you remember when you were a seven year old? Never mind. Even if you did, I bet you weren't much different then you are now. I bet you were never really a child, so you never really grew up."

"Clever deduction, John. It's irrelevant, though. She's staying."

John stared Sherlock down, and realized this argument was a waste of his breath. He let out a sigh of failure. Sherlock got up and returned to his microscope. The girl still had yet to move. John looked out of the corner of his eye and glanced over the girl. She really did look a lot like Sherlock, almost too much. It was unreal how their eye and hair color and curls matched, the way their ivory skin stretched over their same lean, tall build for they're age, looking like a long gangly teenage boy even though they weren't. They're high cheekbones and hallowed cheeks emphasized how thin they were. Even the girls awkward but purposeful postured and they way her eyes observed the room matched that of Sherlock's. How could the girl be anything less then Sherlock's daughter? Everything matched so perfectly. Two prefect Holmes's living with him, boring, nothing-ever-happens-to-me John. It couldn't get more surreal then that.