Chapter 2

"Watson." Pluck, pluck, pluck. "What are we going to do?"

He was, of course, referring to Sophie, who busied herself on the floor sorting through various data notes she had been instructed not to touch. She had been with them for four days now, and not one thing had changed about her since day one. She still clung to her putrid rag doll like a life raft. She still insisted on touching anything and everything that caught her eye, which had led to quite a few spills and accidents. She still would not let Watson touch her, let alone go near her. And she still attached herself to Holmes, for reasons unknown.

"Lucy is sad," she announced as they watched her play on the floor.

"Why's that?" Watson asked.

The little girl's frowning silence was not unexpected, and she turned to Holmes, repeating her statement. "Lucy is sad."

"Well that makes two of us," the detective smiled briefly before scowling into space. He frowned even harder, quickly tucking his violin behinkd his chair as the toddler made her way over and placed the doll on his knees.

"Lucy needs a kiss," she said, smiling.

"Excellent." Holmes turned to Watson. "Watson loves to give kisses." He smirked. "Don't you, Doctor?"

Sophie stared suspiciously at Watson and hugged her doll close to her chest. She made her way back to the center of the room, plopping herself onto the floor. Holmes cocked his head slightly, taking note of the way she fingered the doll's face-just above the poorly-stitched mouth. She shook her head, whispering to herself. Lip-reading came easily to Holmes and he realized she was whispering the word 'no' over and over again, stroking the doll's face.

He glanced at Watson, and then back to Sophie. Back at Watson, back at Sophie, back at Watson, back at Sophie, back at Watson, back at Sophie, back at Watson...and then he busted out laughing. It startled both the girl and the doctor, and they looked at him. He continued to roar, slapping his knees and wiped at his eyes. Sophie laughed too, though she had no idea what was so amusing. To a toddler, the sight in itself was a riot.

"What?" Watson finally asked, sounding mildly annoyed.

Holmes finished up and his expression became very serious. "It's your moustache."

"Excuse me?" The doctor's brows furrowed.

"The reason the child is so frightened of you," the detective explained. "It's your moustache."

"Why on earth would she be afraid of my moustache?" Watson asked like his friend was out of his mind...more than he usually was.

Holmes stood up, his thumb and forefinger to his chin. "It could be a number of things. As adventurous as Irene Adler is, she's also very private, and very possessive by nature. The child just might not be used to seeing men in her life." When nothing registered to the doctor's face, he added, "Only men can grow moust-"

"I know that!" Watson barked, interupting him.

"You could remind her of someone unpleasant," Holmes continued. "Somebody who also has a moustache."

"Holmes." Watson closed his eyes. "I seriously doubt the child fears me because of my facial hair." He looked at Sophie. "She's probably just uncomfortable because..." he faltered.

"Your meatball-shaped head?" Holmes suggested with a shrug.

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Mrs. Hudson stood awkwardly beside the table, drumming her fingers against a serving dish. Holmes eyed the untouched food on the table longingly, and Sophie fingered a spoon, seated squarely in the detective's lap. The clock on the far wall ticked loudly, almost too loudly. Watson was late to dinner, which was odd on his account. Usually Holmes was the one late to dinner, if he remembered to eat at all. The detective had just started to steal a roll when he heard Mrs. Hudson gasp. He looked up and raised his eyebrows.

Watson entered the dining area, shifting his weight awkwardly. He cleared his throat and nodded apologetically.

"Well, go on then," Holmes gestured to Sophie with his head. "Try it."

Watson knelt down on one knee. "Sophie?"

The little girl slid off of Holmes' lap and out of the chair, placing her spoon back on the table. She slowly made her way over to the doctor, and stared at him for a moment. Her little hand touched his face, one finger at a time, tracing the area just under his nose and above his top lip. She then proceeded the same process, only this time, she used both of her hands.

"You're clean," she whispered, smiling.

Watson smiled too. "Yes, Dear," he chuckled slightly. "I'm clean."

Sophie continued to grin from ear to ear. She moved her hands from his face to his hair, and then to his ears, his neck, his shirt, his hands...smiling warmly the entire time.

Watson picked her up and carried her back to the table. She didn't cry or try and pull away from him. As they started to eat, Holmes kept shifting his gaze to the doctor.

"Feel free to gloat," Watson muttered over his glass.

"No." Holmes shook his head slightly. "Just going to miss it, that's all."

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That evening, Watson bathed and dressed Sophie, and he seemed to really enjoy it. He tucked her into his old bed, reading to her from an old fairytale book Mrs. Hudson had given them the day after Sophie's arrival. He read to her until she fell asleep, and when she finally did, he leaned down and kissed her softly.

Holmes watched from the open doorway, smoking his pipe. Watson looked up at him and shrugged, standing up. He followed the detective back to their own room, and as they crawled into bed, he blurted out, "It's the reason I almost married Mary, you know."

"What was that?" Holmes asked.

Watson stayed sitting up, staring dreamily into space. "It was the next step in my life. I'd had education, a career, adventure..." he layed down. "I wanted children, a family."

"You should have told me," Holmes said. "We could have dropped by one of those dreadful orphan homes and picked up one or two...ten..."

Watson laughed. They were silent for a moment, and then the doctor sat up again. "Is she yours?"

"Beg pardon?" Holmes turned his head, cocking a brow.

"I won't get mad," Watson said. "I just want to know."

"Unless Irene had been in one of her drug-and-violate-and-then-disappear moods, then I doubt it," the detective said.

"She's beautiful," Watson muttered, laying back down once more. "Do you think we can make this work, Holmes?"

"We made it work with the dog," Holmes shrugged. "The only difference with a child is it talks."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

To Be Continued...