Author's Notes: A big thanks to everyone who read and favourite-d the first chapter of this story. I hope you continue to enjoy it and shoot me a review to let me know what you think! I'm very excited about this chapter.

Anthony, Chapter Two

Anthony was the most brilliant toddler of them all-or so John believed of his son. By the time he reached three-years old he knew all sorts of words and was speaking in short sentences. He loved his finger paints, and he adored drawing pictures of the people in his life. John would brag at the clinic, showing off how impressive Anthony's latest piece was as he taped his son's artwork to his wall. He had graduated out of his crib to a tiny bed. He had begun pre-school, and seemed to enjoy it very much. Everyone said he was doing very well, recognizing all his colours and animal sounds. However, now and then when Anthony was at home, he would sit and stare at a blank page of paper, a crayon in hand, looking like the most bored little boy. John couldn't help but pity him. He never mentioned his Godfather-John wondered if he even remembered him.

John texted Sherlock occasionally. It was never anything poignant:

Lestrade's wife just left him for a doctor. No, it wasn't me.

How are things in Glocca-Morra?

So, what'dya think for Anthony's Christmas present: puppy or baseball?

And Sherlock would sometimes text back:

She'll go back to him when she gets bored. -SH

John, I'm in New Jersey. This is hardly a vacation. -SH

Whichever fits best in the microwave. Good for experimental purposes. In case it was unclear, I'm joking. -SH

John just liked knowing that Sherlock was still out there, alive somewhere.

The day Sherlock had left John's house for the last time, he gave John a present for Anthony's second birthday. It was tiny, fitting neatly into the palm of John's hand. John opened it with Anthony that night, carefully untying the little bows and unfolding the wrapping paper. Finally, all that was left was a little box, and inside of that box was-to John's surprise-a little silver key. It came attached to a chain, presumably so Anthony could wear it around his neck, but John wasn't so sure that he trusted the two-year old not to strangle himself, so he only let Anthony play with the item under his or Mary's supervision. About a week after opening the gift, John texted Sherlock:

What does it open?

That's for him to figure out. -SH

Unsurprising, as Sherlock had been trying to help Anthony identify the relationships between objects, and had touched upon the subject of keys before. Of course, he had far too much faith in the little boy, but for some reason the hefty task never bothered John, since it was nice to know that at least Sherlock had put some real thought into the gift.

Anthony didn't play much with the key that year. John wondered if he knew how. Sometimes he would take it upon himself to have Anthony try it out in different locks, if only to give him the right idea, but it never worked. Anthony wasn't interested, and why should he have been? He was three-years old and wanted to draw pictures, and there was no shame in that.

Mary was the one who would pull out old family photos to show Anthony his Godfather. Uncle Sherlock, she called the great detective. John never liked these trips down memory lane. Anthony probably barely remembered Sherlock, and Mary had no idea why he'd left (John had told her he was away on some grave business he didn't understand...it wasn't exactly a lie). But for John, looking at the old photos was difficult. For two years, he'd had his friend back-back from the dead, and then he had gone. He'd left John alone again. Sure, he'd send the occasional text, but all that did was tell John he was alive. He'd been alive before, when he was meant to be dead. John saw no difference between having texts or not. Sherlock was still gone.

But finally, when Anthony was a few months into his third-year of life, there was a knock at the door. John approached it cautiously-there had been no events in the past year to suggest any danger toward his family. John even wondered if Sherlock had lied to him about that, making up a less selfish reason for going away. But, of course, he had pretended to die in order to guard John's life, it was more than possible that he was protecting him once again. John held his gun cocked in one hand as he opened the front door with the other, and there was Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing his usual fare: an unusually tight button-down shirt, a blue scarf and his signature coat, lit only by John's porch lights. He shuffled into the house.

His smile pissed John off immensely, and he had the odd urge to wipe it off his face. Instead, though, he put the gun down on the nearest stand and did something more surprising than punching Sherlock: he hugged him. Briefly. With masculine back-patting. Sherlock didn't seem to mind as much as John assumed he would, tenderly patting John's back with just one arm. When John pulled out of the embrace, Sherlock had a mildly amused look on his face.

"It's good to be back," he stated, a mountain of meaning behind the simple greeting. John understood completely: Sherlock had won whatever battle he'd been out to fight, and if only for now, they were safe.

"I'm so sick of you leaving. Don't do it again," he warned, picking up the rifle again (and putting it in his back pocket, as he had intended to). Sherlock didn't respond. He would make no promises.

John let Sherlock remove his outdoor clothes and brought him into the kitchen. Mary wouldn't be home until late that night, and Anthony had already been put to bed. John made some tea for the two men and they sat down at the kitchen table.

"So, are you ever going to tell me which culprit took you away from us for another year?" He enquired, pursing his lips. Sherlock took a few sips of tea before answering.

"I thought perhaps you'd have guessed by now."

"Moriarty."

"Good."

"No." John shook his head. "Not good. But he's done now, isn't he? It's all sorted out?"

Sherlock rested his teacup on the table and wrapped his hands around it, as if willing it to warm him up. John recognized his look. Doubt.

"I don't believe he'll be of any trouble to us in the near future," he said, simply.

"Sherlock, he's supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be dead years ago!"

"It appears he wasn't."

With that, a whole new world of questions was opened up to John, but he only asked one.

"What does he want with Anthony?"

Sherlock looked down into his cup. "He doesn't want Anthony," he began slowly. "He wanted you." John's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I knew if you thought it was just you in danger, like it was before, that you'd insist upon coming with me."

"Bastard," John muttered, his anger increasing by the second.

"I had to give you a reason to stay behind-"

"What were you thinking, Sherlock!" John slammed his hands down onto the table, smashing his own teacup into tiny pieces. He wanted to break more, to throw something or maybe even attack Sherlock. Instead he just stood up, clasping his hands behind his head to keep himself from doing any of those things. The first time Sherlock returned, John had reacted by fainting, his shock made palpable by his head hitting the floor. The disorientation from the fainting quickly turned into joy, and John never had the chance to be upset with Sherlock for leaving him in the first place. This time, though, John remembered to be angry. "Do you have any idea what could have happened to you, out there on your own? You could have died. Actually died. But who cares. You've done it before. Christ. Everything was fine-everyone was fine. In case you don't remember, Sherlock, I moved on. But you came back. You came back, and actually had me thinking that everything was going to to turn out just fine, but it's not. It's not fine, because for some reason you can't stop lying to me!"

Even John couldn't believe how furious he was as he paced back and forth yelling at his friend. Sherlock watched him, his eyes following the upset doctor, his face paling at every line.

"You want to know what the worst part is?" John asked, pausing for Sherlock's response even though the question was clearly rhetorical. "The worst part is that you're going to do it again. Again and again until eventually, you won't come back. You won't come back, and that'll be alright, because by then..." he paused, but finished determinedly, "...by then I'll have stopped expecting you to."

There it was. Everything. Everything John had bundled up for years, spewed out over the kitchen table. He regretted the words almost as soon as he had said them, but it didn't stop him from meaning them. Sherlock just sat there, taking the abuse willingly, as if he knew he deserved it. John nearly apologized, but thought better of it, instead coldly saying:

"You should go."

Sherlock let his gaze fall before obediently exiting the kitchen. John could see the foyer from where he was standing, watching as Sherlock re-dressed himself in his scarf and coat. Not a word was spoken between them. Just as he was reaching for the doorknob, it turned, and Mary was coming inside.

"Sherlock! What a-"

She took one look at Sherlock and instantly felt the tension in the house. Sherlock merely slipped past her and jogged out the front door. Only John could see him glancing up the stairs as he left, certainly knowing where Anthony was sleeping.

Mary closed and locked the door, and was silent as she removed her coat. She brought her purse into the kitchen, and setting it down on the table, she noticed the mess.

"We're low on teacups as it is," she half-heartedly joked, already starting the clean the broken china pieces. John rushed forward to do it for her, and she allowed him to, leaning against the kitchen counter and folding her arms.

"Mary," John began, "I can explain-"

"I don't care what he's done," she stated defiantly, "And I don't care what you said, or how he's reacted." John stopped cleaning to listen. "All I know is that whatever he just did, he did because you're his best mate, and you're going to act like it and forgive him."

John sighed. "It's not that simple."

"It can be. So just let it." With that order, Mary left John alone to clean up the mess he had made. After he was finished, John sat down alone in the kitchen to drink some more tea and collect his thoughts. It didn't take him long to fall asleep there, his head resting on his arms. Has he followed his wife upstairs, he probably wouldn't have expected to see what she did.

Mary got ready for bed, and then made her way to Anthony's bedroom to check in on him. With the light from his night-light, Mary could see the toddler sound asleep on his small mattress, a blanket Molly had given him in his arms. Mary would have simply performed the quick check and then made her way to bed, but she had always been more observant than John, and when she felt a cool breeze coming from the window she knew better than to think John had made the mistake of leaving it open. Mary entered the bedroom and shut the door behind herself quietly, leaning casually against it. The only light in the room now came from the porch lights outside and the night-light next to Anthony's bed. It was the window that illuminated Sherlock's frame.

"Should I call the police, or do I not have to worry about this particular intruder?" she whispered humourously. Sherlock scoffed pleasantly at the jest, his chin resting atop his thumbs as he observed the sleeping boy. "He's missed you."

"He won't remember me. He's developing rapidly, his mind will have deleted multiple old memories."

"Oh, give yourself more credit than that. You're his favourite uncle."

"I'm not his uncle."

"No, but Godfather Sherlock just didn't have a proper ring to it."

Sherlock glanced at Mary. "You were so determined for him to know me?"

"Of course," she answered plainly. "You're family."

Sherlock bowed his head and used his upright thumbs to massage his temples. Mary thought he looked quite moved. "His reports from pre-school are very promising. I'm sure you're very proud."

"Glad to know you've been spying on him. John isn't really that mad at you, you know." Mary was clearly ignoring Sherlock's attempts at simplifying the conversation. "He's just...riled up. He missed you, too." Sherlock looked at her with his usual stern expression. "But he'll forgive you. He already has, he just doesn't know it yet."

"It was impractical for him to join me. His safety would have been compromised-"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me." Mary was treating Sherlock much the same way she had treated John before. "But you do need to quit it with the lies." Sherlock feigned confusion. "Was John in danger? Yes, probably, but you weren't so worried about him, were you? He can take care of himself, after all. You've seen him do it."

"I don't understand," Sherlock lied, already defeated.

"Please. You've lied enough tonight, but you didn't lie a year ago. You left John here to guard him-" she gestured towards Anthony, "-because the real danger to John is if he loses something he cares about."

Sherlock was still, uncomfortable. "Anthony is the bait to get to John. John is the bait to get to me."

"That's why you went and found whoever's after you yourself. No need for bait if the fish swims right into their net." Sherlock looked away, his chin falling back to his hands. Mary chuckled. "Don't you ever discredit my brilliance, Sherlock Holmes."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said sincerely. The two confided in the silence, until Mary decided she was too tired to stand around any longer.

"Well, I'm off to bed. I don't suppose I can interest you in exiting through a door?"

"No," Sherlock replied, standing. "I don't want to startle John."

"At least shut the window before you go, then. I need Anthony catching his death after all you've done for him."

Sherlock addressed her, "Mary...I don't need to tell you that you're in just as much danger as anyone else." She tilted her brow towards him, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh, I see. Not enough to be the boys' Knight in shining armour, now you have to be mine as well?" She smiled appreciatively. "I know, Sherlock. Thank you. I promise I won't do anything reckless."

"See, when you say it, I actually believe you." Sherlock was constantly surprising himself when he was able to speak to Mary in the fashion he spoke to John. Honestly and humourously.

Mary opened the bedroom door to let herself out, but before closing it behind her she allowed herself to have the last word. "You're not allowed to worry about John tonight. The two of you are going to be fine. And in case it wasn't clear to the Great Detective yet: we all adore you. Goodnight, Sherlock." With that, Mary went to bed..

Before letting himself out of the Watson home, Sherlock took a quick stroll around Anthony's bedroom, taking in the various drawings and studying the books Mary had bought for him. He walked over to the bed, and there, hung around the short bedpost, was the key Sherlock had given him over a year beforehand. Sherlock caressed the key, happy that it hadn't simply been forgotten, even if the mystery of the lock was still unsolved.

Sherlock returned the very next day, and with him, eventually, so did normalcy.