At nine years old, Eltham had learned a great deal of things. And with the help of Sherlock and John's son, Nesbit, it kind of aided towards his creative mind. In only two weeks of learning the art of deduction Eltham had helped Sherlock with finding a crucial clue, albeit for a very minor case, but one nonetheless. He was also able to help Mycroft with finding his missing satin tie; they both ended up falling into a rat's nest for the cause.

In his little mind, everything was a new puzzle waiting to be solved. Making his dad tick that morning was one of them as they ate breakfast alone.

"You don't shave when he's away," Eltham mumbled as he chomped away at his pancakes.

"Why would you think that?" Greg asked.

"The hair's darker."

Greg looked up quizzically from his bowl of cereal. "What do you mean, El?"

"The hair on your face is darker then it was a week ago, when father was here."

"Oh," Greg says. "I guess you're right about that."

"I know a lot more than that, too!" Eltham exclaimed with pride

"Care to explain?"

"Certainly, daddy." Eltham set his fork down as he leaned in. "What would you like to know?" He winked; the wicked glint so much like Mycroft's in a way.

Greg shivered in his seat at the sight. That look, he thought. It's going to kill me one day. "Well, first off, start by telling me who got you interested in deducing facts?"

"It was," Eltham said between bites, "Nesbit. He and uncle Sherlock taught me it when I stayed over last month."

Bloody hell, I told Mycroft it was a bad idea, Greg thought sourly as he glanced at his son. "That's the last time you stay over there for two weeks, and if you're so keen on deducing my secrets, do you mind telling me what you've found?"

"You only sleep on father's chest the whole night when you've solved a fairly big case, you pretend to be sleeping when mummy calls because you're scared of her, you don't take your morning pills with coffee because of some weird accident that happened in your child hood; could be a friend's death but not likely. And I know for a fact that you chose that light blue shirt today because it's father's favorite, and don't bother telling me he's coming home today 'cuz I already know."

When Eltham finished up, Greg snorted so hard that his morning coffee almost shot flying out of his nose like one of those comedy shows. He set his mug back down on the table, coughing the entire time as he wiped his nostrils. "How could you possibly know all that?" Greg asked, taken aback.

"I'm smart for my age. Father says it's natural seeing as how he was the one that read to me." Eltham smiled, shrugging like it was nothing.

"That bloody wanker," Greg muttered quietly as he nibbled his toast.

"Sooooo, when's that model airplane getting here?" Eltham smiled.

"Hey! You read your father's emails?"

"I'm nine, dad. I'm not an idiot."

"It's password protected!"

"It wasn't that hard to guess. Not exactly four knocks."

"Have you heard of a thing called privacy? It's kind of useful around here," Greg said kind of sarcastically.

"Who needs it, daddy? Life would be boring if we all thought like you."

Greg sighed as he rubbed his face vigorously. "Bloody hell, you're more like Sherlock then I thought! That's it; no more sleep overs at Uncle John and Sherlock's."

After a while, Big Ben chimed in the distance, alerting the pair that they had to finish up if they didn't want to be late. As Greg collected their dishes and loaded them up in the dishwasher, Eltham hung around by his side with a thoughtful look on his little face.

"Is there something you'd like to get off your chest, El?"

Eltham curled and uncurled his fists as he rocked back and forth; another habit he picked up off of Mycroft. "He writes to an error person sometimes. The person never types back but I don't think he minds."

"Oh," Greg piped up, suddenly more interested. "And what does he say to this 'error' person?"

"Sometimes he just goes on about how the pain in his heart hurts too much, but when he… sees you, everything goes away. And then once, he kept typing, 'I love you, Gregory Lestrade, 'over and over again. What's wrong with him?"

"I have no idea," Greg smiled.