Pain.

That was all that Sherlock could make out clearly.

He had been running after the murderer (or suspect, as Lestrade would say, though Sherlock knew this man was the one they were looking for). They had turned a corner when the man had pulled a knife on Sherlock. Sherlock had managed to knock the man out, but the knife had wedged itself into his stomach. Now, it was all Sherlock could do not writhe around and make it worse.

His face was scrunched up against the pain and eyes were closed tightly. He was dully aware that the sound of a group of feet was approaching him. Sherlock could make out muffled yells, but didn't respond to them. Hands touched him and gently smoothed out his body so that it was lying straight on the ground.

"Sally, call an ambulance! Sherlock's been stabbed!" A familiar voice caught Sherlock's attention, though he couldn't place who it was. Snapping his eyes open for a second, he was able to see a blur of gray hair before they closed again from the pain.

"Dad…!" Sherlock managed to rasp out.

"Wha- Sherlock, it's me, Lestrade!"

"Dad!" Sherlock tried again, his brain not understanding what the man above him was saying. "No… hospital!"

"What do you mean no hospital?!"

"He's got a thing against hospitals, I don't really get either. There's no way he's going to let us get him as far as the ambulance!" John's voice made its way to Sherlock, who now felt as if there was a thick layer of cloth between him and the voices, making it hard to hear them.

"Okay, okay. Gosh, what am I supposed to do then?" Some fabric covered Sherlock quickly followed by the sensation of being lifted in somebody's arms. "John, with me. We're bringing Sherlock to my place. You'd better be able to patch him up."

The world then faded to black.


When Sherlock came to, there was a hand gently running through his hair. His stomach felt horrid, pulsing with a strong pain, but when he ruled that out, he was quite comfortable. A blanket lay on top of him, keeping him nicely warm. The whole room around him smelled strange, like most houses do when you first enter them. And yet, there was something familiar about the smell.

Putting that to the back of his head, Sherlock turned his thoughts to the hand running through his hair. The fingers just brushed his scalp as they went, and the action seemed to be almost subconscious to the person. Sherlock immediately knew who the person must be, if he was remembering what happened in the ally correctly, but before he could correct his tongue, the word came out.

"Dad?" Sherlock mentally cursed himself for the word as the fingers stopped.

"No, sorry if you were expecting someone else. It's just be Lestrade." Sherlock opened his eyes and started to get up when a firm hand pushed him back down and Lestrade's face came into view.

"John said you should try and move as little as possible. He was upset that you wouldn't go to the hospital, and frankly I am too, but he was able to patch you up, though you owe me a new couch. You soaked this one in blood." Lestrade was sitting in a chair right next to the coach that Sherlock was occupying.

"Can I at least sit up?" Sherlock asked, but didn't wait for an answer, pushing himself into a sitting position, hissing under his breath as a new wave of pain hit him.

"Like I could stop you." Lestrade snorted as he watched Sherlock. Before another thing could be said between the two, however, there was a knock at the door, which was in the same room. Getting up, Lestrade walked over and opened it.

Standing in the doorway was a little girl, roughly 6 years old, was looking up at Lestrade. Her blue eyes showed only a hint of fear, though it wasn't toward Lestrade. The fear was coming from somewhere else (something at home perhaps). The girl's brown hair fell down to the middle of her back (covering one eyes, hides behind it). She wore jeans, sneakers, a black shirt, and a thin jacket (hurriedly put on). A nearly-bursting backpack sat on her shoulders (plans to stay here a while). Her breaths were slightly labored, but not horridly (Was walking long distances).

"Alice, what are you doing here?!" Lestrade picked up his daughter and brought her completely into the room, shutting the door with his foot.

"Mommy was acting weird and being a butt, so I came here." Alice answered as she climbed up Lestrade's arm and onto his shoulders.

"That's a 2 mile walk! Are you okay? Do you need anything? Never mind, I'm going to call your mom and see what excuse she has." Lestrade grabbed Alice and placed her on the ground before stalking out of the room. With each step, the air of anger around him grew darker. Once he was out of the room, Sherlock turned to Alice.

"Your mother was drunk, wasn't she?" Alice just shrugged and walked over to the couch, climbing up and pulling her knees into her.

"If you mean she was drinking a really weird smelling drink and was acting less and less like herself the more she drank, than I guess she was drunk." There was that fear in her eyes again. "How did you know?"

"The faint smell of alcohol hangs around you. You were sacred of something, obviously at home or else you wouldn't have felt the need to walk all the way from your mother's to your father's. Even Lestrade has probably seen this, it doesn't exactly take a mind like mine to figure it out."

"M-mommy just kept getting louder and louder, talking about her boyfriend and how he broke up with her. At one point sh-she…" Alice was crying now, the emotion completely engulfing her. "She started to hit me, and I don't know why. A-after a wh-while, she f-fainted and I t-took the chance to l-leave." Alice squeezed her eyes shut and curled into herself even more. And then a piece of fabric touched her face and wiped away the tears. Opening her eyes back up, She saw Sherlock had been the one to do so.

"Emotions are horrid, aren't they? I don't let them get to me, especially sadness and fear. Pesky and useless in my opinion. My own sister shouldn't let them get to her so easily." Still sniffling, Alice rubbed her eyes, trying to get control of herself. After a few minutes, she felt that she could talk without stuttering.

"Why are you here?"

"A murderer stabbed me in the stomach." Sherlock answered bluntly, which was greeted by a gasp from Alice.

"Shouldn't you be in the hospital?" Sherlock smirked.

"Let's just say that there are some things there that I would like to avoid there." Alice climbed across the couch to Sherlock and began to poke him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find where you got stabbed." Sherlock made a sound somewhere between a yelp and a groan as Alice's small finger found the wound that had been stitched up not long ago. A small smile graced her face. "Found it."

"Don't do that." Sherlock pushed her away, feeling vaguely tired. His transport was starting to run out of energy to stay awake as it focused the majority on healing his wound.

"Tell me a story!" Alice jumped slightly on the couch, eyes wide with delight, not a trace of fear or sadness in sight.

"Why would I do that?"

"I told you one last time we met, so now it's your turn!" When Sherlock still didn't look convinced, Alice pressed on. "And I promise to be quiet while you tell it. I pink swear!" Alice held out her pinky, but Sherlock didn't take it in his.

"Okay, fine, if you'll be quiet. Let's see… I'm not doing any of those fairy tales, those are too dull… oh, I know!" Sherlock's face lit up a bit. "This is the story is called Sherlock and the Great Game."


Lestrade sighed as he put down the phone. It had taken a long time, longer than he would have wanted, to convince his ex-wife to allow him to keep Alice for a day or two. It didn't help that she was drunk and wouldn't cooperate, or one minute she'd be fine with the idea and the next she was throwing a tantrum at such a prospect. But there was no way he would let his daughter go back there, at least not until Alice was feeling better.

"Hey Alice, I finished talking to your mom. You're going to be staying with me for-" Lestrade stopped as he walked into the living room. There on the couch was Alice and Sherlock. Alice's head had dropped onto Sherlock's lap, while Sherlock's had flopped backwards onto the back of the couch.

The grin on Lestrade's face threatened to overwhelm it completely. Grabbing another blanket, Lestrade covered Alice as well. He gently kissed Alice on her forehead and patted Sherlock's head. His two kids.