Disclaimer: not mine, but it was fairly exciting to borrow another one of Doyle's original characters, Inspector Lestrade.

And a note to Kay2010SU… this is the chapter in which I introduce the mysterious killer, who is on the loose in London, and it is up to Sherlock Holmes to catch him…. lol. Well, at least that's the truth! And Elaine61, I'm sorry I stopped where I did last chapter. Sadly, I don't think I'll ever write an SSSS… wow, what a word… PMSS is much catchier….

Chapter Four

Back at Baker Street in 1887, Sian was sitting in the parlor and mending clothes. As she was sewing a patch on the knee of Jack's little trousers, she longed for the day when he'd master the art of walking. Energetic boy that he was, he'd wear the knees of his trousers when he'd furiously crawl around the house.

Not too much longer, Sian decided, tearing the thread with her teeth. She heard the sounds of hands and knees shuffling along the hardwood floor in the next room. Sian bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud, but she couldn't suppress her smile. Sherlock must be playing with the babies.

For a man who had always seemed to be such a stoic, Sherlock had proven to be a good father. Sian remembered the day that Jack and Violet were born—Sherlock had been very nervous around them, as if just his touch might break them. He had even declined to hold them soon after their birth.

"They're so tiny and fragile," he had protested when Sian offered little Violet to him. "What if I hurt them?"

Sian rolled her eyes. "They're a lot tougher than you give them credit for," she informed him. "Seriously. Just think of what they just went through."

He had to admit that she had a point there.

So he perched on the edge of the bed and carefully took Violet in his arms.

"There you go," she said. "Just support her head—that's right."

"Am I doing it right?" he asked nervously.

"Yes," Sian assured him, taking Jack into her own arms. "Sherlock," she said. "Put your finger in her palm." He silently obeyed, and Sian was rewarded with the look of pure delight that crossed Sherlock's face when Violet instantly grasped his finger in her tiny fist.

Sian smiled again at the memory. It was hard to believe in less than a year, Jack and Violet had gone from tiny infants to rowdy tots, and Sherlock had gone from timid father to ideal dad. Or over-sized playfellow. It was a relief that he enjoyed playing with his children—Sian had almost been worried, after remembering his tentativeness with Paris and London, back in 2006….

Sian started. Paris and London… how old would they be by now? Six and four? Goodness, that meant that Paris was in first grade now, with London just months away from school herself. Sian had been thinking about her nieces a lot lately… well, maybe more than just a lot. And definitely more than just her nieces. She wondered if Chelsea and Dennis had had another baby, like Chelse had wanted, and if they were even still married. She wondered if her mother had found another boyfriend, and if her father had gotten that promotion he had been talking about, and if Megan had ever found a man that made her happy. She wondered if they missed her, if they thought her dead.

Sian dropped her stitching in her lap.

What was wrong with her? True, she had thought about her friends and family from her past life a lot since she had left, but never enough to, well, plague her like this!

Consider! she commanded herself. Yes, maybe she lost Paris and London, but she had gained Jack and Violet, plus the new baby on the way. She had lost her parents, but she gained a loving father-in-law in Siger. She had lost her sister, but gained two wonderful brothers in Sherrinford and Mycroft. She had lost Megan, but Dr. Watson made an excellent friend, not to mention the other ladies who lived on Baker Street. And most importantly, she gained a tender husband. Sherlock was the love of her life, the half that made her whole, her best friend, her husband, her soulmate.

Sian shook the feelings of doubt away. She was fine. Maybe just a little homesick, but nothing more. Yes, perfectly fine.

A rapping on the door interrupted Sian's treacherous thoughts. Mrs. Hudson was out at the market, and Sian, happy for the distraction, leapt from her seat to answer the door.

"Hello?" she asked, opening the door a crack. It was Inspector Lestrade from the Scotland Yard. "Oh, Mr. Lestrade," Sian said, throwing the door open all the way.

Sian was not Lestrade's biggest fan—he was definitely the stereotypical chauvinistic Victorian male ass. While he was always trying to "protect her sensitive ears" by refraining to speak of crime and murder and such in her presence, Sian usually amused herself by playing the part of an exaggeratedly simple lady, just one swoon away from the vapors. But honestly—if Sian wasn't able to handle discussing crime, then why on earth would she have married a detective?

"Hello, Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade said cordially. "Is your husband at home?"

Behind them, they heard more loud shuffling, followed by the delighted screams of children. Sian turned around to the source of the racket, and Lestrade peered over her shoulder, and through the doorway to the next room, they could see Jack and Violet violently crawling away, with Sherlock chasing after them. Sian turned back towards Lestrade, who was looking as if he was questioning whether or not he had just imagined seeing the greatest detective in London chasing after his children on the floor as if he was no more than a child himself. He also looked as if he was rather doubting that it was a hallucination at all.

"Yes," Sian said primly, stating the obvious. "My husband is home."

"If you could be so good as to, ah, collect him, I have something most urgent to discuss with him."

"Of course," Sian said sweetly. "Won't you please come in while I, uh, collect him?"

"Thank you," Lestrade said, making himself at home as he assumed the chair opposite of Sherlock's usual armchair. Sian flounced over to the doorway, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?" she called. "Could you please come down here?"

"Of course, my love," he called back. "Just a minute."

Sian returned to the parlor. "He will be right with you," she told Lestrade, perching on the arm of the sofa. Just that moment, Sherlock Holmes walked into the room, holding a giggling and squirming child under each arm.

"Ah, Lestrade," he greeted, seemingly unphased that the chief of police had caught him playing with his babies.

"Holmes—I have some rather pressing matters to discuss with you," Lestrade said, cutting straight to the matter.

"Well, by all means, press on," Holmes invited, passing Jack to his wife. He settled into his armchair with his daughter in her lap. Violet sat like a small queen on her father's knee.

"Well, actually, it might be better if we were, ah, alone," Lestrade said. He glanced at Sian. "It's rather grisly stuff, Madam," he told her.

"I see," Sian said, nodding her head understandingly. "Too much for a weak female like me? I understand." She stood up and, with Jack on her hip, she scooped Violet out of her husband's lap. "I'll be in the kitchen," she said. "The children probably want a snack, anyway." With that, she dramatically left the room. Holmes was trying his best not to smile at his wife.

"Was she being sarcastic?" Lestrade wondered aloud.

"Oh, she's as meek and mild a woman as they come," Holmes said, trying to stop looking amused.

"Mrs. Holmes is a very interesting woman," Lestrade granted. Holmes doubted it was a compliment.

"Listen—you banished my wife from her own parlor so that we could speak privately," he said. "I'd advise that you do so."

"Very well. Holmes, have you heard about the killing spree that's been going on of late?" Holmes rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

"I have," he said. "But you can undoubtedly tell me more than the London Times can. Do enlighten me."

"For the past few weeks, we've been finding men, dead, around London. The death toll as of now is four."

"Where were these men found?"

"Crumpled in alleys, mostly. One man, though, was killed on the sidewalk just a few paces away from his home."

"And how were they killed?"

"Gunshot to the head, every one of them."

"I see."

"At first, we thought that these were separate, unrelated killings, despite the similarities of death between them."

"And what changed your minds about that?"

"This," Lestrade said, handing an initialed scrap of fabric to Holmes. He glanced at it.

"Its monogram says SH. I take that to mean Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

"We believe so."

"Probably an invitation for me to investigate this case," Holmes murmured, studying the handkerchief intently. "And this was found on which of the men?"

"All of them.

"All of them?" Holmes repeated. "And you waited until the fourth man before you came to me?"

"We thought that we could handle it." Holmes shook his head.

"Arrogance is a terrible thing, Inspector," he chastised. Lestrade moved to speak, but Holmes silenced him with a wave of his hand. "This handkerchief is very nicely made. The thread is very fine and the stitching neat. This was purchased by a man of no mean income." Holmes stroked the fine linen. "Purchased from Woolsey's, unless I've missed my guess." He inspected the initials. "The S and H were scrawled on the handkerchief with a common ink pen. A personal pen, no doubt. Impossible to track the pen. The handkerchief, on the other hand, might prove to be a fine lead." He handed it back to Lestrade.

"So, if you've found this same clue on all of the victims, what finally prompted you to ask for my assistance?" Lestrade looked embarrassed.

"Well, the fourth man's been found today."

"Today?"

"Yes. I was hoping you could come and take a look."

"Very well," Holmes said, rising from his seat. "Let me tell Sian and I'll be right with you. Sian?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked, walking back into the parlor. She glanced at Lestrade. "I do hope you two men have stopped talking about blood and gore and such," she said innocently. "It might be more than a feeble woman like myself to bear."

"Of course we are done, dear Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade said kindly, bearing in mind that she was a "meek and mild" sort of woman. "I would not have allowed your husband to call for you unless we were through talking about those horrid sorts of things."

Holmes at that moment fell prey to a sudden coughing fit.

"Don't choke," Sian said, looking amused at Sherlock. "Need me to whack you on the back?" This caused the coughs to continue.

"No, no, Sian. I'm fine, I'm sure."

"Of course," she smiled.

"I just wanted to tell you that I need to go out with Lestrade for a bit to take a look at a corpse." Sian's eyebrows shot up.

"Ooh. Fun."

"Oh yes. Quite." He reached for his coat from the rack. "I'll be back in time for supper," he promised, throwing it on. Sian wrapped his scarf around his neck and, standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him.

"Be careful," she told him.

"I will," he promised.