September 18, 2104

The young man lay propped up on his bed staring absently at the far wall; seeing but not seeing. His mouth opened a breath and his brow knitted. A sound a hair softer than a sigh slipped out before he licked his lips and turned onto his side. Blue-grey eyes darted across the room, alighting on a small, fist sized brass clock sandwiched haphazardly between a copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook and a rusty metal box in bad repair. Four a.m. Too bored to attempt sleep, his mind was a bee hive of all that was mundane and trivial. The buzz of his thoughts as though acting out the birth of the solar system transposed him into a lull.

Focussing his eyes on his tingling arm, he trained the whole of his mind to ponder the question of when to restore proper blood flow to his hand, of which he had bent up under his thigh. All too soon, he discovered his brain slowly rebelling against him, pushing thoughts to the fore he would rather not dwell on just yet. It was all too fresh, too new, too disturbing. He violently pulled his hand free and flexed stiff digits, enjoying the stinging warmth in his finger tips. Still the thoughts came upon him, marching into the valley of his gut, and weighing his heart down with lead.

He flung himself onto his back, eyes composed in reckless abandonment. If he could not force his thoughts away he might as well give in and surrender. All the while a little voice he knew to be his own was telling him that there never had been a struggle, that he wanted to dwell on this. Angrily he dug his fingers into the bedspread. What had he made himself into? Was all his study for naught? It was ludicrous that a mind as balanced as his should come unglued as it had when he knew he was capable of handling it. Three years and a few random decades of study and training had taught him how to handle the unexpected. For the love of God his whole life revolved around, sought even, the unexpected avenues existence had to offer. Why was this time any different than any other?

His hand, seemingly of its own accord, danced around the side of the bed until it found what it was looking for. A smooth, cool, red and white necklace of 108 beads dangled from his hand. He watched the beads sway for a moment, then sighed through his angular nose, bringing his hand to rest on his chest, his heartbeat sounding off within his ears.

You are not above it all, Sherlock, the thought registering clearly in his face, his gaze once again finding the clock, five a.m., but more so what lay beside it.

His brain barley registered the move to the bookshelf he had done it so fast. Metal box in hand he sat cross-legged on the wood floor and placed it before him. Almost reverently he lifted back the lid and peered at its contents. A sad smile graced his lips, lending him a ghostly cast of his true age.

A pile of old, crisp photographs stared up at him. The one immediately on top causing him to smile merrily despite himself. It was a photo of himself, Dr. Watson, and Inspector Lestrade taken unaware. The date on the back placed it as 1886, by a photographer trying to capitalize on the gruesome murder that had occurred in the house behind them. Not wanting his name in any of it, he had offered the man an absurd sum for the print and his silence. He had achieved his goal, but only after frightening the poor photographer with his decided manner, much to the embarrassment of Watson. Lestrade, he remembered, had laughed at the whole scene, declaring it "more than a bit funny." He tapped the picture against his chin, amused that he only saw the humour in it now, but he supposed that was the curse of hindsight. Setting it aside, he dove back into his task, smiling, frowning, sometimes scoffing at one picture after another.

One by one, he sifted though the immense stack of prints belonging to what he thought of as his "early" life until he found what he wanted. A small, tied off bundle of tintypes. Removing the faded ribbon, Sherlock Holmes felt the inner corners of his mind crumble. A fair haired little boy of no more than six stared up at him, behind him his austere looking older brother held his hand protectively on his shoulder. Their parents stood impassively in the background, but with an arm lovingly adorning each of their boys. In flowing script he knew to be the woman's, the back of the family photo simply read "Holmes Family, 1860".

Sherlock smiled and chuckled noiselessly. He knew far too well the reason for his brother's harsh gaze in the picture. Being so young, energetic -and on that particular day bored- Sherlock had managed to annoy his then thirteen year old brother to the point where Mycroft actually considered hitting him. A sly grin donned the younger Holmes's narrow face, his eyes twinkling. Even if Mycroft hadn't been too appreciative of the garden snake that had "accidentally" slipped down his shirt collar, it had been all too amusing watching him wriggle about with an expression of horror on his face. Of course, once Mycroft had removed the poor creature from his shirt he had taken after Sherlock with every intention of burying him alive. Except by the time Mycroft had caught him, he was so flustered and out of breath he simply levelled a fist at him and promised to knock out his teeth if he didn't behave.

Struck by a sudden though, the detective burst into a full fit of laughter. By odd coincidence, Mycroft had made good on his word a few years later as he tried to show him how to mount a horse. He hadn't intended to kick him in the jaw, but in losing his grip on the reins his foot had swung out, landing with sufficient force to knock out one of his front baby teeth. In a panic, Mycroft had carried a screaming Sherlock into the house, blood covering the top of his mouth. Sherlock didn't remember his mother's reaction, but he did recall the sound of her voice as she tried to calm him.

As suddenly as it came the laughter died on his lips, leaving a look of utmost concentration in its wake. His eyes darkening to a piercing grey as they landed on a photo of John Watson amongst some of his medical colleagues taken right before the turn of the century. Will he have all his memories? Will he remember Mary? Will he choose the medical profession again now that it had changed so much? Will he hate having to live through a second childhood?

He sighed, speaking softly. "What do you make of your youngest son now, Mother?" His gaze lingering on a cabinet shot of Violet Holmes that had drifted to his knee. "Now that he is to play father to his best friend."

Fingering the box absently, a curious expression arose on his brow. Reaching in, he pulled an emerald tiepin from the bottom, laughing silently that this expensive little trinket survived the years at the bottom of such a dilapidated old box. Raking under the rest of the photos and odd obituaries turned up little else, but what he did find surprised him a bit. John Watson's pocket watch, the chain intertwined with a stately gentleman's ring he recognized as his own, and a small, white gold diamond ring.

Slipping the diamond onto his pinkie, Sherlock carefully began putting everything back in the box, all the while thinking back of the young woman who had given him the ring. He paused before snapping the lid of the tin closed and pulled his family portrait back out. Once the box was squared away on the shelf again, Sherlock propped the old photo over the clock and sat against his bed, twisting the ring this way and that.

The young woman who had owned this ring was not someone Sherlock thought of lightly. She said she was the youngest daughter of a duke, but he had come by her acquaintance on a small farm in the middle of France working as a maid. Clearly with child, he hadn't been there but two days when labour pains had come upon her. Short of staff, the midwife enlisted him to keep her calm despite his protests. The end of it all was her haemorrhaging, her baby stillborn, and her dying request that the ring be given to her child when the babe came of age. She had thrust the ring in his hand and that was that. He had left the room feeling quite aloof and upon inspecting the ring, believed her tale.

The detective's mind faltered and for one second he imagined Beth Lestrade in the Lady's place. He paled at the thought of burying his Boswell a second time, but was struck senseless when his mind carried out the imagery to its gruesome end and Lestrade's drained face loomed before him. In his eyes he saw the once lively Inspector sprawled in a bath of her own blood like a bastardized Saint Bernadette, an ice-blue baby boy laying between her bare legs.

"No," he cried hoarsely, drifting limply to the side. He curled his head between his arms, forcing deep breaths in and out to alleviate the swell of nausea rising in his stomach. A growing clang sounded in his ears, echoing deep within his skull. Focussing on the six chimes tolling from the photograph, he attempted to will himself back to normal. The back of his throat felt parched and sticky, his hands shook despite all effort, but slowly he sat back up.

With his head to his chest Sherlock swallowed the nameless knot that seemed determined to climb up his throat and impress its self upon him. Perspiration dotted his brow, eyes flickering from the stern face of Siger Holmes to that of his graceful wife. Sherlock bit the length of his index finger frowning, elbow pressed into his knee. Almost as an afterthought, the spry detective leapt from the floor and tore down to the kitchen in a rush.

Sherlock collided with the solid metal frame belonging to Watson round the corner of the door, jarring the robot to his senses. Watson gave Holmes a curious look and opened his mouth to speak. Sherlock's thin hand quickly flattened its self against the elasto-mask, a finger flying to his lips requesting silence.

"What is this Watson that I should have one-hundred-and-one years of life behind me, two-hundred-and-fifty to my name, only to be reduced to a state that reflects nothing of what I am?" He whispered ardently, near shouting in the quiet of the flat.

Watson removed Holmes's hand. "Gracious Holmes, I thought it would have been obvious," he said kindly.

"Obvious?" his voice was taunt with incredulity. "Tell me dear Watson, what have I been obtuse enough to have missed?"

"There is no need to get worked up about it, it's quite simple."

Holmes barked a short laugh. "Indeed? Do tell."

Watson smiled gently. "You cannot miss what you don't know and you have never known what it is like to be an expectant," he paused, thinking, "uh, father. Other than your own childhood you've never been actively involved with children, nor to my knowledge have you ever been around a woman with child save in passing. Simply put, you are nervous wreck because you are afraid, age has nothing to do with it."

Sherlock sank into a chair contemplatively and flashed a brief grin. "Well said, old man. I forget that you yourself are prone to the odd moments of clarity as your namesake was."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, you are hardly the first in history to go through such feelings, nor will you be the last."

"I don't disagree with you my friend, not at all. And while you are quite correct in your assessment of me, it is only the start of what has been running amok within the confines of my mind. I should be prepared to tell you the Fates are behind this and the Lama himself laughing at what God has allowed humanity to accomplish. A grain of sand would have a better grasp of these queer doings than I and still I am expected to have the answers. I have nothing, Watson, absolutely nothing." Sherlock ran a hand over his face and wiped an eye.

Watson frowned and sat opposite Holmes at the thick oak table. "There is more to this than fears of parenting I take it?"

"Realization is a strong current capable of drowning even the stoutest of men should they lose sight of the land they seek and knowledge of such an anchor round the neck." Throwing his legs over the table-top and crossing them Sherlock leaned his chair back and sighed, arms folded.

Watson started to speak, closed his mouth, pressed his lips, then watched as Holmes closed his eyes and began breathing through his mouth. Fingering a knife groove in the table that had been there for more years than he had circuits, he pondered the wisdom in trying for answers to the questions in his wiring.

"Ask your question, Watson." Sherlock's eyes remained shut.

The metal man's face drew back in surprise. "Oh, I had thought- Dare I ask what it is that you've realised?"

He sighed through his nose. "It is ironic that spring should be credited as the season of life when in truth it preludes -even masking- death. It is not the true nature of the world, but the epitome of destruction because to claim perfection is to lie." Sherlock righted himself and gazed at the metal man patiently, his hands playing over the details in the table.

Watson was at a loss. Holmes's words had been easy enough to understand, but the man's eyes were now fixed on him in a blurry warmth prone to cause chills rather than comfort and for the life of him he did not know why. Uneasiness was quickly setting in as he searched for a reply to the detective's statement. Sherlock smiled slowly, the grey of his irises dimming in colour only to burn brighter.

"It's all right, Watson, don't trouble yourself over my random idiosyncrasies, they tend to answer themselves in time." Sherlock stood to leave.

Watson gaped after him then shouted out, "No, Holmes, I can't very well let conclude on this note. It's -it's . . ."

"Perfectly all right." Holmes said, placing a hand on his shoulder and lowering his eyes to meet the robot's with another smile.

"But -but barely twenty minutes ago you were admittedly troubled and now you're not?" Watson rubbed his head. "Are you sure you're fine?"

Sherlock braced himself against the doorway, his face a chiselled monolith. "I still have my fears, Watson, but you need not worry about them. Time will see things right, I simply need to regain my patience towards them that's all."

"If pending parenthood is affecting you this way, I wonder how Lestrade is fairing?" Watson thought aloud.

"I cannot call myself a gentleman, Watson. I had forgotten that despite appearances our dear Inspector is technically a lady and deserves our consideration, especially in matter such as this." A soft, humorous "ha" escaped him, the corners of his eyes gathering in evidence of a hidden grin.

Watson smiled wide. "Doesn't act much like a lady does she?"

"No indeed. I could place £100 on my own name in full confidence that I could act more a lady than she." He tilted forward and lit a cigarette, putting the match out in a flower vase.

Watson started laughing. "You disguised as a pregnant woman, surely that sight would be worth more than that."

Holmes cocked his head in a mild offense, breathing in his own smoke. "I would never belittle myself by adding that particular characteristic to my disguise. And you shall have to pardon me on what you view as an absurdly low sum, the idea of not being able to live off £100 a year is strange to me still." Sherlock sighed for what Watson thought must have been the twentieth time and inquired what caused him to do so.

"Nothing of particular interest, merely the fanciful notion that nothing save having John handed to me in perfect health will remove my anxiety."

"Rather baseless fear isn't it, Holmes? With today's technology and advancements in medicine the infant fatality rate is zero. You have no reason to think he would be anything but healthy. Besides, New London is home to the best children and neonates medical department this side of the Atlantic should anything go wrong."

"Once again Watson you forget the influence of the 19th century over me, stillbirth and death from childbirth were common then." He stole a glance at his pocket watch, then turned on his heel heading for the first floor. "Come, it is now eight and if I'm not mistaken Lestrade has just let herself in." The last of the cigarette finding its way into the vase like the match before it.

Watson followed a step behind Holmes's long stride. "Holmes, try not to stress about it, the hospitals are one-hundred percent reliable."

Holmes's face contorted into a grotesque show of disgust. He strode into Lestrade's presence with the air of a violent gale, shouting to Watson, "I will not have John Watson re-born into this world in a hospital. Babies should be born in homes, not facilities for the sick, it's un-natural."

This passionate outburst from the detective became not only the first words she heard from him that morning, but also the first to make her blood boil. Lestrade felt her anger rise even as she tried to quell it. Her violet-blue eyes narrowed into two piercing beams at the man who now came towards her wearing the thin smile that passed as his usual greeting, full of charm but always sarcastic in nature. He still wore the same outfit from the day before, wrinkled and no neck-tie with the top button on the vest undone. Amusingly, he was also completely bare-foot, but she made the decision to laugh later. Lestrade felt her heart pounding against her ribs, making her uniform seem tighter than it really was. She scrunched her toes inside her boots and smiled back.

"Holmes," she said sweetly. "What do you mean by no hospitals and "babies should be born in homes"?" Lestrade gave him her best smile, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then dropped the cute act. "Because if you think for one minute that I am going to agree to go the all-natural route you've got another thing coming."

Holmes looked temporarily surprised. "Forgive me, I thought you understood the reasons behind my dislike of hospitals."

Lestrade smiled again and crossed her arms. "I only heard an opinion. What about you

Watson, did you catch his reasons?"

The metal man's eyes darted between the two, "I think you will be needing some tea by the end of all this. I'm going to the kitchen to make a small breakfast. I'll bring it up when you're ready." Watson put his back to them and walked back towards the kitchen. Once out of sight he rolled his eyes and shook his head, "glad I got out of there."

Lestrade watched Watson's retreating back in some annoyance, her jaw agape out of surprise. She then turned to Holmes who was laughing silently and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"You knew he'd do that didn't you?" She asked, re-directing her finger in the direction Watson had gone.

Holmes continued his laughter into a quiet, but audible chuckle. Lestrade's face changed from its normal smooth pale peach to a mix of pink and red. Her eyes flashed, "knock it off Holmes."

He smiled kindly, placing a hand on the small of her back and guiding her to a seat. "My dear Inspector, would you swim in the ocean during a storm?"

Lestrade was taken aback. "No, it's dangerous," she said as Holmes sat in his arm chair.

"Exactly." His eyes bore into hers, his lips growing into a full smirk as he noted the exact moment she caught on. Violet eyes flew wide, angrily burning along with the rest of the lovely face in which they sat.

"Smooth Holmes, real smooth," she said acidly, as the detective shrugged. "Now care to tell me why you hate hospitals so much?"

Fingers in a steeple against the bridge of his nose, eyes half closed, Holmes grunted. "Is it not enough that I want the first thing John sees of this world to be a familiar setting and not some strange doctor who's acquaintance we barely made."

Lestrade's expression went flat. "Babies can't see clearly at birth, Holmes, to them it's all swirls of colour."

"Really? Interesting. Pray continue."

She put her head in her hands and groaned. "What's there to continue about? I've already said there is no way I'm going all-natural."

Holmes knitted his brow. "Yes, you said that, and I'm afraid I'm at as loss by what you mean, surely you don't want a caesarean."

"No," she barked, her mind balking at how boring recovery could be. "Hospitals can administer drugs to numb the lower half of your body so you won't feel pain. Unfortunately-"

"Unfortunately, what you speak of is illegal for use outside of the hospital, correct? And you don't want to go without." Holmes turned to her, staring in a contemplative manner. "Will morphine work? I know it was used in the 20th century to dull pain."

If she could have willed herself to move she would have hit him -hard. Even after a year of working closely with him, Lestrade had a hard time believing the things that would come out of his mouth. Granted, most of the comments he made were worth listening to and making note of, while others simply came out all wrong. Well meaning commentary, such as suggesting the use of morphine, would sound as cold and harsh as being dropped into the middle of the Arctic Ocean in January.

Lestrade curled her fingers into the armrests of her chair, all the while taking slow and deliberate breaths. With one thought she felt all the anger and frustration drain out of her, only to be replaced by a mix of worry, sorrow, and peace. She let go and folded her hands gracefully in her lap. An introspective light shadowed her face briefly before she turned to the detective who was sitting with one foot in his chair and the other sideways, his grey eyes scanning her furiously.

I can't get mad. I can't get mad. "Do you have any idea how much this is going to stress me out? Why should you have a say in how John Watson, or any baby -unless it's your own and with your track record that'll never happen- is born? No modern woman would agree to a home delivery, it's just not done, I doubt you could find a surrogate that would even consider it."

Holmes hadn't taken his eyes off her once, when he spoke it was flat. "A surrogate. You changed your mind then."

Lestrade sighed, seemingly lost as she forcibly ignored the growing tightness in her chest. "I don't know if I ever agreed in the first place."

Holmes drew a sharp breath. Lestrade watched him in surprise, the look that fleetingly appeared on his face told her she hadn't needed to move to slap him. She felt him mentally turn away from her as he lit a cigarette, his eyes darkening.

"This situation will progress, Lestrade, towards life, death, however you will it." His voice was not kind. "What would I say to a potential surrogate that wouldn't make them question our actions. You yourself openly admit to disliking clones, doesn't the world share in your opinion? I've told you before that I -WE- had no right to subject John to this world. As much as I would prefer his company to anyone else, I was content to leave him to God. But you made your choices as Sir Evans made his, and since he cannot bear children it was left unto you. Now you wish to tell me you want out of the mess you created. Fine. We shall call Sir Evans and request he abort this neonate of a clone today, no sense raising your stress level any higher."

The pressure in her lungs was bordering on cold nausea. "Holmes abortion is illegal, Sir Evans said he could find a surrogate, and how is this my mess?" A tinge of anger resurfaced in her voice.

"Do you really want me to list off reasons?" He stood, cigarette between his lips, then he suddenly threw it into the hearth, retrieved his pipe from a cluttered corner and packed it. Holmes drew deeply on the clay piece and smiled, meeting Lestrade's gaze out of the corner of his eye. "I've been growing a few different types of tobacco plants and, in light of your laws, I promised myself to only light the strongest of these on a limited basis. As of right now, the devil with it, I don't care."

"Holmes if you get caught with that Greyson will boil you alive. I don't know if anyone has ever told you, but smoke in general is harmful, especially to infants. And I thought you agreed to stop smoking." She jumped up in front of him, bringing her sharply to his attention.

His lip curled. "Cigarettes. I gave you my word on that, nothing else. And what infant? The youngest thing here is that machine you call Watson."

"Let me remind you that you're the one who wanted that machine around, and we can get a surrogate-"

"I will not have you burden the shoulders of some poor woman because you refuse to accept responsibility." Holmes intoned, sending a cloud of bluish smoke into the air.

"Stop shoving this down my throat, I don't want to be pregnant." Lestrade nearly shouted. "I'm too-"

"Afraid." Holmes said this a little softer, the dark glitter of his eyes speaking volumes of which Lestrade was in no mood to interpret.

"I was going to say too young, but afraid no, try disgusted."

Holmes backed away from her, dropped into his chair like a rag doll, and gazed straight ahead. The pipe sat firmly between his teeth, his fingers drumming a beat out on his leg in tune to whatever score was currently occupying his mind. Lestrade stood in the middle of the room feeling foolish. She massaged her temples and groaned.

"Don't take to ignoring me Holmes, this won't just disappear."

He closed his eyes. "I am aware of that, Lestrade." He flattened his hands on his knees, and puffed lightly on the pipe.

After a few minutes Lestrade sighed and sat on the settee, dragging her eyes around the room waiting for Holmes to speak. Finally she gave up trying to distract herself and openly stared at him. "Holmes." The man appeared to be asleep. "Holmes!"

"Did it ever occur to you that silence is a trait to be admired in a companion?" He cracked an eye.

She frowned, pursing her lips into a thin line. "So is listening."

Holmes let his posture drop and turned to her. "I have heard every word you've spoken and answered accordingly, is a moment of silence too much to ask for?"

She snorted. "Trying to hear voices in your head?"

"Something along those lines."

Lestrade looked Holmes in the eye, a second knot forming in her stomach under the gaze of his unreadable grey-blue eyes. "I'm only twenty-three, I really don't want to get pregnant so young."

Holmes nodded once. "I understand." He watched with muted fascination the affect those two words had on the young woman on his sofa. Her eyes drifting from blue to violet and back again in a wash effect conveying to him the great uneasiness stirring within her. Holmes doubted she realized that for once her poker face had abandoned her and her body language turned traitor. She had not expected him to stop arguing, and now that he had she did not know what to do or say.

He soften his gaze. "If you are willing, we can work through this Lestrade." Holmes rose to set his finished pipe on the fireplace mantel, tapping the tobacco remnants in a pile on the corner.

The Inspector regained a little of her composure. "You never said why you're so against a surrogate."

"I do not care for the idea of bringing another person into our midst. Occupational hazards alone warrant against bringing in a surrogate, who un-doubtingly will bring her relations into the mix. No, far too many people for my taste. I could not guarantee their safety from actions taken by the like of Moriarty or any number of criminals who would see an opportunity to cause grief."

Lestrade smiled lightly. "Point taken."

"Am I to take that . . ." Holmes held his hand out in questioning gesture.

Lestrade took to her feet, feeling more comfortable at eye level. "Well, uh. Crud. You backed me into this on purpose."

"You give me far too much credit, Lestrade. Have you made up your mind?"

"Geez, Holmes, I haven't even had a day to think about this." She started pacing herself, bringing a smirk to Holmes's face.

"How is that different than if he were biologically yours? From what I understand, unless it is planned, most people do not even have that."

"Yeah, well now days you can choose when you want to have kids instead of relying on nature to do its thing."

Holmes raised a brow. "Welcome to what must be a primitive concept for you: you are suddenly expecting a child, what now?"

Lestrade glared at him. "Bad choice of humour, Holmes, that sounds like the title for a cheap self-help book."

"It is the literal truth. And the first question -which I believe to be answered- is will you carry the un-born babe, or shall we call upon an outside source?" Holmes sat gracefully back down, patiently awaiting Lestrade's response.

She narrowed her blue eyes at him. "Now you're playing games."

The detective smiled impishly. "Perhaps, or perhaps I believe your mind is made up and you are trying to convince yourself otherwise."

Lestrade felt her heart drop into her stomach, fighting with him wasn't working, no one would be convinced of anything at this rate. She made the decision to drop what little of her tough act was left and go with the one things sure to at least get her point across, emotion.

Here goes nothing. "Holmes, I know you think that my being the surrogate is the best option, and in the grand scheme of things you're probably right, but I need time to think about this. I," I hate admitting this. "I need time to make sure my mental health is what it should be. You have to admit that the last few months have been exhausting for all of us. It would be irresponsible and unfair to everyone, including John, to ignore the fact we're all over-worked and stressed out."

Holmes averted his eyes. For her, this was an un-characteristically personal bit of information to say aloud, and to him. Frankly, it made him feel like a heel. He knew their last case had taken a lot out of her and her hellish nightmare two nights ago was not an effective aid in recuperation. His thumb found the forgotten ring on his pinkie and took to rubbing it. It surprised him that Lestrade either hadn't noticed it yet, or wasn't saying anything about it in favour of more important topics.

This is not right, this argument should never have happened. How can I can I consider myself a gentleman when I act the opposite? Meeting her eyes, Holmes gestured towards the sofa she had vacated.

"Forgive me, Miss Lestrade. Sit down, please. I have behaved in a detestable manner this morning, and I have no excuse for it save that you are right in what you say. While I am used to functioning after near running myself into the ground, I made the mistake of assuming you would remain un-affected."

"I would like to point out you're not exactly functioning up to your usual par either, Holmes. Normally, no matter how seemingly dense, you're a little more intuitive than this."

The detective sighed and slipped the ring into his pants pocket. "The Continent it is then," he said, standing. "There is a train that leaves at 11:30, it is now 10:15, will that be sufficient time for you to pack?"

Lestrade marvelled at his change. "What for?" She asked, watching him throw open the door to his room and take to packing a medium sized suitcase.

"For a vacation, of course. Ask Watson to call up the station and reserve three tickets on your way out will you? Afterwards, Watson and I will pick you up round eleven and we shall be on our way."

"Wait a minute, do you mean today? But Greyson-"

Holmes didn't bother to look up. "Yes, today, and Greyson survived without us once, he will be fine for a few weeks."

Lestrade's eyes flew wide. "A few weeks? Holmes, I don't know about this."

Holmes smiled and started ushering her to the door. "Don't worry about it, Miss Lestrade, this is the sort of thing John himself would recommend. Who ignores the advice of a trusted doctor?"

"Oh I don't know, let me think, you." The Inspector said with a grinning smirk.

Holmes turned a little pink. "Ah, yes, well time is wasting my dear friend, I shall see you at eleven."

Lestrade recoiled slightly as Holmes gently closed the door on her, leaving her on the landing of 221b feeling amused, horrified, and relieved at the same time. She put a hand to her mouth and bit on her lip, seriously considering going back in after a full explanation. A million questions were still buzzing in her head, all of them with individual fears of their own, but they could wait a few weeks couldn't they? The answers weren't going to come to her any faster if she dwelled on them, so why not take a break?

Lord knows I could use some time off, and this would be a good chance to get Holmes talking without finding a way to distract himself. She paused in her thoughts, ran her tongue against the back of her teeth, then contorted her features in a way that clearly expressed baffled awe. Holy cow, I've agreed to his insane plan and didn't even realize it. Beth, what are you doing? Something stupid that's what. Re-opening the door to the flat, she called out to the detective who turned to her as if he had expected it. He questioned her with his eyes rather than words, patiently waiting for her to speak first.

"I was just thinking, maybe we could go to Spain first and see the Moorish palace in Granada. Ever since Edith told me of one of her summer trips there I've wanted to see it for myself. She said it was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen."

Holmes smiled. "I trust Edith's judgement. If you wish to see Spain, then we shall see Spain."

Lestrade beamed at him for the first time that he could recall outside of the day he woke up. He wasn't one to note on physical beauty, but he was certain with that one smile John would have declared her "positively stunning", and then remark on how her deep blue eyes sparkled like stars, or something sensationally romantic along the same lines when she was out of ear shot. Holmes laughed to himself, wondering if it was romanticism that he had learned from his dear friend, or just an increased ability for metaphors. Metaphors. The word stuck in his mind with fierce obstinacy, so much so that he reached out and took hold of Lestrade by the wrist as she was leaving.

"You'll pardon me I'm sure, I do understand the need for mental health and the sometimes seeming illogical ways problems and solutions will come about. In light of that I was wondering if you will hold onto something for me."

Lestrade faced him with a curious look in her blue eyes, leaning against the door as he continued. "Please do not take this to mean anything more than safe-keeping an item for me. If you will consent to hold onto it for a time I will be much obliged."

Holmes turned her hand face up, placed the ring in the centre of her palm, and folded her fingers over it. Lestrade gazed at the hand he was still cupping, then back at him. "Holmes, I don't understand. You want me to hold onto a ring?" He let go, allowing her to examine it closely.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, "and very old. Who's was it?"

"It belonged to a young woman who went by the name Elle de Vore, who's story I shall relate when we have more time to spare."

"I'll hold you to that," she sliding it onto the ring finger of her right hand. "No pockets. Guess I better get to my apartment and start packing. I'll see you in a bit."

Holmes nodded. "Indeed, and do remember Watson on your way out."

"I will," Lestrade called from half way down the stairs.

Holmes shut the door fully when she had disappeared from his sight. He rested his forehead against the door and closed his eyes, lamenting the nonsense his mind concocted leading to such a superstitious action. Strangely enough, he felt a sense of relief now that she had it, which was doing much to quell his overactive imagination.

Too busy, everything is far too busy. Taking a deep breath, Holmes resumed his preparations deciding that after exhausting the sites in Granada their next destination would be the middle of the French countryside in some obscure bed & breakfast where they could simply disappear. Suitcase in hand, Holmes gave one last look around, smiled wistfully, then locked the door behind him.


A/N January 2010

"Granada" is in homage to Granada Television, the broadcasting company behind The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes etc. featuring Jeremy Brett as Holmes.

A tip of my pencil in lieu of a hat to Mr. Jeremy Brett (1933-1995), for without him my first impression of Holmes would have been left to lesser actors than he. God rest his soul.