Hello everyone!

First, an apology. Summer craziness and summer laziness have both assaulted me, and so, I am behind on updates. *Shrugs sheepishly* Apparently, I am much better at maintaining a regular schedule during the school year.

Next - IMPORTANT! REVISION OF CHAPTERS 2 & 3:

Please re-read chapters 2 & 3 BEFORE reading this chapter. I was frustrated with both, and after some intense planning and discussion with my amazingly brilliant friend OpalSkyDivineLove, I have mapped out a lot of the rest of the story and added a bit of backstory/made some changes to chapters 2 & 3.

You will be confused if you read this chapter without re-reading the others.

Sorry about that! I have NEVER made such big changes to a story after beginning it, so I apologize, but it will make the story better in the long run, so I hope that you'll forgive me. :)

Black Night - thanks again for the lovely review! And yes...Sherlock will begin to be suspicious of "Gigi", even in this chapter - and Molly has to work up the guts to share her surprise with her daughter. ;) Hope you enjoy this chapter!

As always, thank you to OpalSkyDivineLove for pre-reading and giving me great feedback. :)

Still don't own Sherlock or the Parent Trap or the Beatles. *sigh*

Bait and Switch

"Little darlin' – I feel that ice is slowly melting

Little darlin' – it feels like years since it's been clear -"

- The Beatles, "Here Comes the Sun"

It has changed everything.

Moriarty's game, played out posthumously by his right-hand man Moran, has changed everything.

For Sherlock.

While attempting to delete the kiss, he's found that he much prefers replaying it in his mind. The…acuity of his mental faculties post-kiss (once he recovered from the shock of it, of course) was…improved. Incredibly so.

He decides he may be open to doing it again. The actual kissing bit. Not sure he wants anything more than that, at the moment – actually, he's quite certain he does not want anything more than that – married to his work, and all - but the kissing, he wouldn't mind trying again.

Purely for scientific purposes, of course.

But even Sherlock – Sherlock, who has no understanding of human nature – knows that to snog Molly senseless without any sort of expectation of emotional or romantic attachment is Not Good.

And really…for all his desire for a kiss – he really…would rather not have her angry with him. And really…he would rather not hurt her.

He's not as much of an idiot where feelings are concerned as he would have others believe.

He recognizes the fact that he cares deeply for Molly and her well-being, and he recognizes that this desire to kiss her is moving her out of that same realm of other people he cares deeply for – John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson – but…he's not sure where to put her now, or what to do with that tiny revelation.

Okay – so he's still a blithering idiot where feelings are concerned.

But unfortunately – or fortunately – for him, apparently, Molly has not quite remembered the events that transpired at the hospital.

When he goes to see her a few days later at the safe house Mycroft has provided for her, after Moran has been successfully stopped, he is fully prepared for the (most likely) blushing, stammering, awkward apology of her advances. And he is fully prepared to appear the smug, dashing hero again, reassuring her that it was quite all right, and in fact…perhaps…he could…kiss her again? On the cheek. Purely to reassure her.

So he is surprised to find her up and about, fixing her own breakfast, humming along to the radio, and smiling warmly as she greets him, not an ounce of awkwardness or apology to be found. She appears to be quite recovered.

He blinks in surprise, and frowns. This is not…this was not how it was supposed to go. Certainly, she doesn't feel that the kiss was acceptable? That they are…together, now? He nearly shudders at the thought.

"Sherlock – would you like to join me? I can make some extra bacon, and eggs. Your brother certainly keeps this place well-stocked. And making you breakfast is the least I could do, after you saved my life. I'm really, truly…well…thankful. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes." She meets his gaze with a warm, sincere look of affection, and then continues. "Would - you like to join me? Since the case is over, I mean. You can eat again." Molly is placing food on plates and organizing the breakfast dishes and she doesn't look up again until the end of her speech, when she notices Sherlock looks decidedly confused.

And he is. He is impressed, once again, at how well she knows him – though he shouldn't be, not really, after all this time – but he doesn't understand – she thinks the breakfast is a thank-you? She already…thanked him…at the hospital. Unless…

Molly misreads his confusion, though. "Oh, did you already eat? Well, of course you don't have to eat. I'm certainly hungry enough. The doctor Mycroft had here didn't let me eat much the past two days…wanted to monitor my reaction to that drug Moran knocked me out with. Not that I'd eat all this food, of course…but…ha…"

…unless she doesn't remember. She doesn't remember the kiss.

"Molly," he says suddenly, ignoring her rambling about the amount of food she could or could not eat, and watching her carefully -"What…do you remember? About...before you arrived at the safe house?" If she remembers the kiss, she'll surely give herself away with the answer to that question.

"What?" And she looks mildly disappointed, but not at all embarrassed or sheepish. "Oh. You want my statement, then? Because Mycroft's already sent…"

"No, no," Sherlock shakes his head emphatically and frowns. "You don't…remember what happened at the hospital?"

She blinks, and frowns, obviously trying to remember. "N…no. I…remember…feeling…happy? Or relieved? And…snow? No, I think that was dust... And…being carried to a car? But…sorry…I don't…I don't remember much of what happened at the hospital."

And Sherlock's face twitches, because this is most definitely an unanticipated occurrence. The drug should not have affected her memory this much, but he knows Molly, and she…she is not capable of being this deceptive, so she obviously simply does not remember. Perhaps the incident-specific amnesia is a post-traumatic stress related event? That means…

She looks concerned. "Should I remember, Sherlock?"

…That means that it would still be hidden there, somewhere, in her memory. Because surely…surely, said trauma came from the Moran incident, not the kiss. And surely…kissing Sherlock Holmes was not something Molly Hooper would carelessly forget?

With a start, Sherlock realizes that she is standing in front of him now, her hand tentatively touching his arm. "Sherlock? Is there something I need to remember? About the hospital?"

And he realizes that he is being foolish. This is exactly what he needs – exactly the excuse he needs to move past this whole foolish mess of a thing. Everything can go back to the way it was – he and Molly are friends, and nothing more, and it is better that way. No need to kiss again, for scientific purposes or otherwise. Right?

"No. No," he shakes his head and reassures her, giving her a rare, kind smile. "Nothing. I am…happy you are safe. And well."

"Well…I have you to thank for that. So…thank you." She blushes as she smiles, and removes her hand from his arm, and her stomach growls loudly. "Oh…" she laughs a little. "Guess I should take care of that…are you hungry?"

He is frowning at the spot where her hand was resting on his arm, because it feels decidedly…empty, now. He feels…wrong, somehow.

He shakes his head. "No, thank you. I have…some loose ends to tie up."

"Oh. All right, then. Will…will I be able to go home soon? And back to work? Everything…back to normal?" She says 'normal' almost teasingly, like she knows nothing in her life will ever be normal with Sherlock around.

He finds he likes that – the idea of her normal including him. His friendship, he reminds himself firmly.

Sherlock meets her eyes. "Yes. Everything will be back to normal soon."

11 years later

July

London, England

Lydia bit her lip, looking through the crowds, searching for her not-technically-an-uncle Uncle John Watson. She'd already found her bags at the luggage claim and she had to admit, for all her confidence in her brilliant plan, her heart was beating awfully hard. Her palms were sweating, and her stomach was clutching, and now her heart felt like it was trying some sort of escape maneuver from her chest.

She loved it.

There – just around the family with matching T-shirts and the elderly couple – was Uncle John.

Stay in character.

Smiling what she hoped was a very Gigi-like smile, she began waving her bandaged fingers timidly as she walked toward him, hauling her luggage behind her with her good hand.

When he saw her, his face broke into a grin that reached all the way to his eyes, and she caught him taking in her injured fingers, and her haircut- but he quickly refocused on her.

They stood staring, smiling lopsidedly at each other, for a long moment.

"Hey, kiddo," he said with a sort of gruff affection, breaking the silence, and offering her his hand.

This is it. Deception Numero Uno.

Lydia's grin grew even wider as she took it, shook it twice firmly, and slid her fingertips to his as he gave her a little spin, right there in the airport, and then brought her in for a sort-of hug afterward.

Lydia found herself blushing into his cardigan, and spontaneously wrapped her arms fully around him for a proper hug, before kissing his cheek lightly and pulling away.

Because…not only had she been missing a Dad all this time…apparently, she'd also been missing an uncle who wears silly sweaters and spins her in airports.

Besides…the hug and kiss…that would be a Gigi move, right? Right.

"Hey, Uncle John," she replied, beaming.

He smiled at her, hands on her shoulders, taking in her new appearance, and then took her injured left hand in his own to inspect it.

Lydia drew in a breath as he studied the bruised, taped fingers on her left hand.

"And how did you manage this, Gigi?" He asked, frowning.

"Oh," Lydia answered lightly – "it was an accident. I was running after a friend, and she went into the mess hall, and I didn't catch the door fast enough, and it caught me instead. Smashed my fingers up a bit, but the nurse said they'd been fine in a week or two." She studied his expression and her hand twitched under his scrutiny. Nailed the accent, Lydia. Awesome.

"Well," he said, and his smile returned as he dropped her hand and moved to gather up her luggage. "Looks like it's getting on well. Probably closer to a week, to heal, mmm? Which is a good thing, considering. And you cut your hair? At camp?"

"Do you like it?" Lydia asked, feigning nervousness, touching it self-consciously.

"Yeah." He nodded. "It…it looks good on you. Your Dad - " and he paused for a moment, and cleared his throat – "He'll…think it's more practical."

"Oh. Good. I know he's always saying it would be less of an inconvenience if it was shorter," Lydia said.

"Yeah, he does say that," John muttered, thinking. " – oh!" And he released her luggage, and tapped around his pockets, withdrawing a small wrapped gift. "I almost forgot – wanted to give you this before we get home to your Dad." He smiled at her again.

He's as smiley as mum, thought Lydia. She smiled at him, and took the gift, and her hand hovered over the wrapping. "I can open it here, then?" She asked expectantly.

"Yeah, of course. Otherwise your Dad'll be not-so-subtly deducing how you liked his more than mine again, which we both know is bonkers." He rolled his eyes emphatically – good naturedly - for her.

She giggled and opened it quickly, eager to see what was inside.

It was a blank CD case. She was puzzled for a moment, and opened it, to see if perhaps he'd burned her a CD and forgot to label the outside.

Turned out to be a blank, empty CD case.

Lydia looked up at John, slightly confused, and was surprised to find that his lips were pressed into a thin, angry line, and his brow was furrowed in confusion – then understanding.

"I can't believe – the bloody – sorry, sorry Gigi – sorry - I can't…he…the absolute…" and John rubbed his hand over his face, and took the empty case from her, crinkling the paper with frustration in his hands before throwing it into the nearest rubbish bin. He blew one long, frustrated breath out his nose, and then shook his head again, and offered her a shrug and a smile. "Should've known," he muttered under his breath.

Lydia was still a bit confused, but gathered that something had happened to her gift. Gigi's gift. "It's…okay, Uncle John," she said, and patted his arm reassuringly. "What…happened?"

John snorted. "Your dear old Dad did it again. Remember when you came home from your first camp?"

Lydia froze for a moment. They'd discussed a lot at camp – even the camps they'd gone to in the past - but…not so much, everything that had happened after every camp. Lydia had the feeling she'd missed a lot of little scuffles between her Dad and her Uncle. Gigi had warned her about it…but she hadn't told her every detail of every one.

But her belated reassurances that she remembered turned out to be unnecessary, because he was already reminiscing, as he was walking again – "Your Dad stole my present – that book you wanted, what was it? The new McKay book? And replaced it with an old copy of Harry Potter. Said it wasn't fair for me to sneak presents to you. He wanted to see your reactions. To the gifts." He chuckled as he recalled the incident. "You took both of them and went into your room and opened them alone so he wouldn't see your reaction to either of the gifts. He hasn't tried it since." He flashed her a proud grin.

Thank you for that convenient piece of information. Lydia silently thanked both God and her uncle.

John frowned. "Apparently he's forgotten that little incident. Probably deleted it." He snorted. By now they had reached the street, and he promptly hailed a cab. "Shall we?"

Lydia giggled, and took the arm he offered her. "We shall."

As they arrived at Baker Street, Lydia was practically bouncing with excitement.

Actually, she was bouncing.

"You're eager to get home," John observed, smiling.

Lydia immediately stopped. Gigi doesn't bounce. "I just…missed home. I'm happy to be back." She flashed him a timid smile.

"Well," he said, as the cabbie stopped in front of 221, "Go on up, then. I'll take care of your luggage. And just this once, I'll cover the cab fee." He gave her a teasing smile, and she found she wasn't acting when she smiled back.

"It's…great to be here, Uncle John. To be home. It's…really, really great."

Taking a breath, she opened the car door and fairly skipped up the steps and through the front door.

Inside, she looked around in wonder, doing her best to take everything in and commit it to memory – the stairs that led down, to Uncle John's rooms – 221 C, and the cheery door that led to Mrs. Hudson's rooms, and the stairs that led up, wooden and worn. She lay a hand on the banister, feeling the smooth gloss against her palm, and breathing in the scent of dust and sunlight and London air coming in through the still-open door behind her.

She moved to test the first step with her foot, and the creak of a door opening behind her startled her.

"Oh, Gigi, dear!" A voice crowed, and Lydia spun around to meet the landlady.

She was a small, thin, older woman, who obviously had a lot of spirit left in her wizened frame. Lydia could practically feel the woman's energy waves radiating off of her.

"You beautiful girl – oh!" The woman – Mrs. Hudson - gasped, and her hands flew to cover her mouth. "You've cut your hair! What a pity! It was always…well, never mind," she backtracked, and sounded almost as though she were scolding herself. "It looks lovely, dear. It really does. I just suppose I'll miss that long hair of yours. But you're still the most beautiful girl in London. And just look at how you've grown!"

Mrs. Hudson then proceeded to cluck and pat at Lydia's shoulders and hair and cheeks, talking all the while about how much she was missed while she was away and how the boys (Lydia presumed she was talking about Uncle John and her father) had only had two decent cases to sustain them while she was away and how sorry she was that she wasn't able to get her a nice gift, because she'd had to replace the front door after her father…did something to it (her voice trailed off at the end, and Lydia wasn't quite sure what had happened to it, exactly) - but perhaps she'd like to stop by later for some tea and biscuits?

Lydia was smiling in a sort of awed admiration by the end of the woman's ministrations – she'd managed to get everything out in one breath. Realizing that Mrs. Hudson was looking for an answer, Lydia remembered Gigi's orders and quickly embraced the older woman and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Tea and biscuits sound perfectly lovely." For good measure, she added – "I…missed you."

It was the right thing to say.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes grew shiny and she blinked rapidly and patted Lydia on the cheek again. "Such a good girl you are, dear. And we've all missed you, too. But I've kept you from your father long enough. He'll be expecting you, now, of course, with that nasty eavesdropping habit of his." But the words were said with a motherly affection, and Lydia warmed to Mrs. Hudson.

She'd not even met her father yet, and already – this was turning out to be the best idea she'd ever had.

He was waiting for her, with his back to the door, just as Gigi said he would be.

Like he needs a moment to compose his features into something….calm and collected.

Her heart had never beaten harder in her short life.

When he turned to her as she entered the room and closed the door behind her, her breath caught in her throat.

Older, now, than her picture of him – but still marvelously handsome, nearly unchanged – beautiful - save for a few more lines around the mouth and eyes, and…and oh – he's deducing her now!

She stood very still for a moment, noting the minutest of expressions – a small smile - pleasure, at seeing her, a slight furrowing of the brow - mild concern, at her fingers, a slight frown and…blinking, at her hair - flit across his face as he took in her appearance, her body language, her hair, her fingers – everything. And she did her best to appear at her most Gigi-like while at the same time, taking in everything around her.

Smiley face bullet holes – fireplace and bookshelf – chairs and couch and kitchen and tiny lab and bedroom door and stairs and there, in the center of it all – her father – Sherlock Holmes.

Her father, who was now smiling at her, and it lifted her heart to a place where she was sure she could rise and fly, if she so desired.

"Hullo, Dad," she said softly, and smiled at him.

He closed the distance between them in a few long strides, and she felt his eyes take her in even more closely, and his voice was low when he returned her greeting.

"Who are you, now, and what have you done with my Genevieve?" He asked – but the words were said playfully, with a tinge of sadness and a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle affectionately, and Lydia knew that her changes in "Gigi's" appearance had affected him.

Perfect, she thought – just a tinge guilty. "Still the same girl, Dad. Same Gigi. Same Genevieve. Just – a bit older. Taller. You know-" she began to explain, but he took her injured fingers in her own, and frowned, gently inspecting them.

"Mmm. Caught in a screen door? You should be more careful, Genevieve. Thankfully it's nothing serious…" He did not sound overly concerned.

Slightly awed and intimidated by his quick deduction he'd made about her fingers – and glad that Gigi had told her he'd notice a fake injury – Lydia was glad when Uncle John chose that moment to knock on the door behind them.

"Open up then," he shouted, his voice muffled through the door. "I've got something to talk to you about, Sherlock, involving breaking into my flat again and stealing a certain CD, and a load of baggage for Gigi, besides. Gigi, help me out, here."

Sherlock dropped her hand and rolled his eyes. "I don't suppose we can just lock him out for the evening, can we?"

Lydia, reminding herself that she was Gigi, replied accordingly. "Dad," she said, scolding and smiling.

He returned the smile and opened the door for his friend as Lydia stepped out of the way. John came through, depositing the luggage on the floor inside the door and nudging Lydia's shoulder gently in way of greeting before turning a scowl on Sherlock.

Taking the empty CD case out of his pocket, he waved it in front of Sherlock's nose. "Care to explain this?"

Sherlock smiled. "Certainly. Since my daughter has been away at a camp that certainly did not emphasize logical thought and deductions, however developmentally appropriate and beneficial it may have been, I decided that it would do her good to practice when she got home. One moment, please."

Lydia's nervous system was torn somewhere between anxious excitement and nauseous dread as her father left the room and her uncle gave her an exasperated shrug.

Sherlock returned a moment later, with two identically wrapped presents, one in each hand. They were both wrapped in a pale lavender paper – Gigi's favourite colour – and seemed indistinguishable, to look at. "Which is from me, and which is from John?"

"You've got to be kidding me," John muttered. "Sherlock, just -"

But Lydia interrupted as she licked her lips and looked uncertainly at her father. "May I…touch them?"

He grinned at her, shooting a triumphant look at John. "Of course. But you may not open them until you correctly deduce which present is from me, and which is from John, and explain the basis for your deductions."

Lydia began to raise an eyebrow, but remembered fiercely again that she was Gigi – good, sweet Gigi – and so she salvaged her expression into something surprised but determined and picked up both packages from her father's hand.

Both were the shape of a CD case – it appeared he'd just wrapped two CD cases. She felt around the package edges, and yes – each of the gifts was a CD, wrapped. She smelled the wrapping on each gift, just in case – but nothing different about their scents.

Running her fingers along the cases again, she concluded that the CD cases were both the thicker, more durable kind bought in music stores, and not the flimsy kind bought en masse for burning CDs. She balanced the gifts in her hands, and then switched the gifts and balanced them again.

"One feels lighter," she announced, and set them down on the coffee table. "Be right back!"

And she ran to the stairs, and up to where Gigi described her room would be - her room – and looked through the book case for some of Gigi's music. Luckily, her room was organized perfectly and she found a CD case with a CD in it in no time flat.

Racing back down the stairs, she clutched the CD from her room in her hand, and the two men watched her now, Sherlock with an amused sort of pride, and John with…well…perhaps it was also a look of pride.

Carefully, Lydia balanced out the gifts in her hands, one at a time, comparing their weight to the weight of the known CD. As she knew, one CD case was lighter than the other. Much lighter. Almost as if there were no CD in it at all.

Holding up the slightly (infinitesimally) heavier CD, she announced confidently. "This one is Uncle John's."

Uncle John shook his head in amazement, but her father, his face a mask of neutrality, asked her patiently – "And what deductions support that conclusion?"

Lydia, too caught up in the excitement of actually applying deductions for an audience other than Gigi, forgot that she was supposed to be…not very good at it. Fortunately, she remembered the accent. Nearly a month of speaking with it non-stop made it nearly impossible to forget, now.

She grinned at her father. "It was obvious, Dad."

John looked taken aback at her statement, and her father raised his eyebrows.

Lydia plowed on. "Both cases are CD cases – the kind bought from music shops, not the flimsy kind bought at a cheap office supply store, based on the thickness and the ridges you can feel under the wrapping. Uncle John obviously bought me a CD – he meant to give it to me at the airport, but it was empty and blank, so you switched them out at some point when he wasn't paying attention. Sorry, Uncle John. And so I knew the gifts were in CD cases, and the one most likely was a CD, but one gift felt lighter than the other. So I compared their masses to a known CD weight, and since I already knew Uncle John had gotten me a real CD, I knew his had to be the gift that matched the closest mass of the real CD. The lighter one is from you, Dad, and probably contains…a picture, or a piece of paper, or something, describing the real gift you got me, because CDs are not your thing but you wanted to test me so you got an empty CD case and wrapped it to test me on my deductions! Not too rusty, eh Dad?!" And she beamed at her father, who grinned at her in return.

"Holy crap," John said, looking between the two in amazement. "I thought we sent you to a regular camp. How'd you -"

Lydia realized her mistake, and blushed, and shook her head. "Oh, we played a lot of…games that…reminded me of deductions. So I practiced. There was a girl there who…liked mysteries and such. Can I open them now?" She lied, and then asked brightly, changing the subject.

"Of course. Sound deductions, Genevieve." Sherlock smiled at her again, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time.

And she was somewhat disappointed because…she wanted she, herself, Lydia, to get credit for that stroke of brilliance. Ah, well. Stick to the plan. Don't make him any more suspicious…he'd be angry if he found out now, anyway…

She remembered in time, now, to behave more like Gigi, and took her time carefully opening Uncle John's present first. It was a Yo-Yo Ma CD. It was perfect for Gigi.

So she smiled her most genuine Gigi smile, and flitted over to him, and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Uncle John. It's perfect."

He smiled warmly in return. "You're very welcome."

"If you think that was perfect, wait until you open mine." A smile played about her father's lips, and she could tell he had moved on from her previous demonstration and was as excited for her to open her present as she was.

Gosh, but he's practically preening, she thought, giddy as she opened the gift – meant for Gigi – she reminded herself.

Opening the blank CD case, she found a piece of paper, folded carefully to fit inside the case.

Slowly, carefully, she opened it.

The first thing she noticed was the London Symphony Orchestra heading.

Her gaze flicked to her father, who was smiling almost smugly. She continued reading.

Apparently, Gigi the amazing violinist had somehow gotten the chance to practice with the LSO.

Lydia's fingers trembled and her mouth dropped open into a little 'O'.

Oh, Lord, was she thankful that she'd pinched her fingers in that door. She only wished she'd broken them, now.

She felt herself going pale, and was quite stern with herself. Suck it up, Lydia. How would Gigi react to this?

But it was too late. Her father had seen her worry and discomfort, and had crossed the room to crouch beside her.

"Genevieve," he said gently, "I'm sorry. I…shouldn't have surprised you with it like this. I received the response in the mail just yesterday. I sent in a recording just after you left for camp. But you can do this. You're-"

"No," Lydia said quickly, reassuringly. "I mean – what I mean is, yes. I'm…this is the perfect gift, Dad – really, completely perfect. Thank you. I'm just – worried, because of my…fingers," she lied. Hopefully he doesn't see straight through this.

He was studying her curiously, now, looking between her fingers and her face. "Surely John has told you your fingers should be fine in a week or so. The practice with the Orchestra isn't until the end of the summer. You will have plenty of time to heal, and to practice, before practicing with the orchestra. You've…wanted to do this for a long time. I know you've stopped by to listen after school. And I've heard you practice some of their pieces."

Lydia blinked. Whew. Not until the end of summer. And…it really was the perfect gift for Gigi. It was totally personal and thoughtful…why had Mum given him up, again? "You're right, Dad. It…it really is the perfect gift for me. Thank you." And she squeezed his hand once, gently, but before she could add anything else, her father was up and away, pacing.

"Of course it is." He flashed her a grin, rubbing his hands together. "And I'm summarily impressed by your improved deductive capabilities." Drat, he hadn't moved on. "Tell me, what can you deduce about what I've done today?"

Lydia frowned. The CDs were easy, and obvious – an isolated challenge. But though Gigi had taught her, she was not as familiar with her father, or his ways. Still, she supposed trying and…failing would make her look more like Gigi.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, studying the coat and scarf on the hanger near the door, and her father's ensemble, and the items around the flat. "Well…you've…gotten up, and…(no dishes in the sink)…didn't eat here…but you're not on a big case because I was coming home today and it's not raining today so your coat is dry…but…you could've gone out, and solved a small case…I'm not sure. Maybe you…ate with Mrs. Hudson this morning?" She asked hopefully. "Because her flat smelled like a…fry up…and she…seems…she is the sort to celebrate with food, right?"

He smiled gently at her. "There's my girl. Adequate application of extrapolation, but you missed something key about the kitchen – something obvious. I only had coffee, you can see and smell the remnants in the bin, there - "

"I missed something obvious? You haven't even mentioned my hair!" Lydia protested, and then clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at him, mortified.

He tilted his head and studied her, and something in his face changed. It was…it was almost…sad. But it was quickly replaced by a gentle smirk. "Of course I noticed." He took a few steps towards her, and took a strand of her dark hair between his fingers. "It was cut between…six and eight weeks ago? With sharp scissors, but one blade had a nick on the left edge. You decided fairly early at camp to cut it, didn't you? Unusual for you…" he muttered, and Lydia held her breath.

Please oh please oh please oh please.

But she needn't have worried. He seemed distracted by something in his own mind. "But it is normal for children to explore boundaries and assert independence in their pre-teen years…" he continued muttering to himself.

Lydia took her father's hand and squeezed it again gently, and whispered, "It's okay, Dad."

He looked at her and smiled, but he still looked a bit out of focus, so Lydia said what she felt was a very Gigi thing to add. "I promise I won't go getting any piercings or tattoos. And I won't even think about kissing a boy for another three months," she teased.

The look of frozen horror on her father's face made Lydia quickly amend her joke. "Three years, then?"

Sherlock recovered and smirked at her. "You know, in certain cultures, it would be acceptable for you to be engaged by now. Remember - once I took on a case in Bangladesh involving a girl your age who'd run away from her husband-to-be. She was clever. Hid in disguise as a servant girl right under their noses. I was quite…impressed with her and helped her find a home at a convent school for girls in Dhaka."

"Will you tell me about it?" Lydia asked quietly.

"About the case?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised. "You've heard that one before."

"Yes…but…I don't mind. I missed you at camp. Will you…tell me again?" Once again, Lydia found that she did not have to act.

And so, with Uncle John taking care of acquiring Chinese take-out, Lydia settled in for an evening of sitting starry-eyed by her newfound father as he regaled her with tales of adventure and intrigue in Bangladesh.

Napa Valley, California

Gigi stood, worry and anticipation fighting their battles in her stomach, looking for Lydia's worn yellow duffle to make its way around the baggage claim.

She was so nervous she didn't see it until its third trip around.

She knew it was its third trip around because her mother told her so.

"Lydia – bit of jetlag? That's the third time it's gone under your nose." A teasing, happy voice said from somewhere just behind her, as a woman reached around and hauled the yellow, flowered duffle off the belt.

"Mum?" Gasped Gigi, and turned to face her.

Her mother – and yes, it was her mother – was dressed in soft, pale jeans and a light, yellow, summery blouse with lots of ruffles. Her brown hair was braided to the side, and her smile was wide and happy.

She was the most beautiful woman Gigi had ever seen.

"Of course, silly. Who else would I be?" Her mum laughed, and held her arms open. "Come on, now, you've been away for eight weeks – surely I deserve a bit of public af-"

Gigi's enthusiastic embrace caused the last few syllables to leave Molly Hooper's mouth in a huff. "-fection. Well, there!"

She hugged her girl back, and it was with great reluctance that Gigi pulled away after a long moment – Lydia isn't into all this hugging, remember.

Still, she beamed with happiness when Molly kissed both of her cheeks soundly, and held her at shoulder's length, beaming at her. "Look at you, Lydia! Growing up…you've gained at least two inches the past two months. My beautiful girl."

Gigi grinned back at her. "You're…looking good yourself, Mum. I'm…glad to be back."

"I'm glad you're back, too," Molly said, hoisting the duffle over her shoulder. "We've got a lot to catch up on. You first. How was camp? Did you make any girl-friends? Any boy-friends?" She teased.

"Moo-um!" Gigi protested, in Lydia's signature wail, as they began to walk side-by-side to the airport's exit. "You know it was an all-girls camp."

"Mmm, but Camp Thurgood for Boys was just across the way. No one was sneaking out, were they?"

Gigi laughed. "No, Mum. No one was sneaking out, Mum."

"Good. You're far too young for that." Molly said, in mock sternness.

Gigi rolled her eyes, hamming up the Lydia angle. "I'll be eleven in February, Mum."

"Mmm, that's true."

By now, the mother and daughter had reached the parking lot. Molly guided them to an older yellow jeep, which she unlocked and placed the duffle in. Gigi recognized it from her lessons with Lydia as Mary's car.

"Mary working today, Mum?" She asked as she slid into the front seat, which was sticky with summer heat. "Ick," she commented, moving her legs so her thighs wouldn't stick to the seat.

"Here's a towel, love. Sit on this," Molly said, handing her a faded blue one. Gigi complied. "And you know Mary's at home baking your favorite bread, because that's the one thing I couldn't manage to cook for you, for your homecoming dinner."

"Thanks, Mum. Cheesy herb bread?" Gigi asked hopefully, knowing that was Lydia's favorite.

"Of course! It's still your favorite, isn't it?" Molly asked, sitting on a faded beige towel as she started the car.

"Of course, Mum. I mean, I haven't changed that much in eight weeks, Mum."

Molly grinned at her. For a few moments, they sat in companionable silence, Molly humming happily along with the radio, which was turned down low, and Gigi taking in the scenic mountains in the distance.

After a few moments, Molly continued the conversation again. "Are you hungry? I brought some of your favorites, in the basket by your feet – those honey braided pretzel twists, and fruit snacks, and lemonade, and water."

"Oh, thanks, Mum, but I'm not hungry, Mum." Gigi said, distracted by the sight of a picturesque city in a valley they were driving by.

"Not hungry?!" Molly laughed. "What exactly did they feed you on that plane?"

Gigi blushed, and sheepishly remembered Lydia's notorious appetite. "Must be that jetlag, again, Mum. Or something. Sorry. I'm sure I'll be hungry for dinner." I've got to eat a lot at dinner.

"I'm sure you will," Molly smiled at her. "And then, since you're suffering so from that jetlag, I've got us some older movies to watch – all sorts. There's Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and From Russia With Love, and Roman Holiday, and Master of Disguise, and The Blob, so I've got all our bases covered, so to speak. And we can chat about camp and I can tell you what's been happening in sunny California while you've been away." She glanced over at her daughter, who was beaming at her.

"That…sounds great, Mum. Really, really great. Thanks...Mum."

Molly wrinkled her nose and laughed, a short, breathy laugh. "Why do you keep doing that, Lydia?"

"Doing what?" Gigi asked, stiffening just a bit. Molly didn't notice.

"Calling me 'Mum'? Not that I mind…you're just…saying it quite a bit, you know," Molly teased.

"Oh," Gigi said, and then, because it was always easier for her to play a part when there was a large amount of truth involved, explained. "Well, while I was at camp, I…met this girl. She didn't have a Mum. And I realized…that there are a lot of people, every day, who never get to say the word 'Mum'. They don't have Mums to pick them up at airports or cook homecoming meals or rent loads of old fil-er…movies. They just…don't. And so…I just…am…happy, I guess, that I can say it now."

"Now?" Molly asked, smiling at her daughter. Gigi noticed her eyes were a bit wet and…blinky…after her little speech. Perhaps I can be a bit more…myself…if I just use that excuse these next few weeks.

"Well, now that I'm home, I mean...Mum." Gigi feigned carelessness, displaying a false bravado she hoped would pass for Lydia's.

Molly laughed again.

"Sorry, Mum," Gigi said again, laughing herself.

"It's quite all right, Lydia. You can call me Mum as often as you like."

As they pulled in to the driveway of the pretty little brick duplex, Gigi's heart was going a mile a minute. She had fooled her mother so far – but she still had Mary Morstan to fool, as well. Molly grabbed the duffle, and Gigi grabbed the uneaten basket of snacks on the jeep floor.

Gigi let Molly enter first and head up the stairs to the bedrooms. After entering herself she stopped and closed the door behind her. As she turned around, her eyes widened, taking in her home, and walking through it slowly, remembering everything Lydia had taught her. As she walked in the door, there was a little entryway with a closet for coats and shoes, and then polished wooden floors led to a stairway going up. Beside the stairway, the room opened to a small-ish living room, which contained an old patterned couch, a comfy plush chair, two bookcases with titles neatly lined, a rug, a television and DVD player above the fake electric fireplace, and a host of knick-knacks, obviously taken from various trips. Gigi let her fingers trail over a snow-globe of Mickey Mouse and a miniature of the Golden Gate Bridge, which had the inscription I left my heart in San Francisco. The room was casual and warm and led into the kitchen, which was painted a bright sunny yellow, and displayed papers and diagrams of Lydia's, as well as a countertop full of delicious-smelling food, and a clean, round oak table with four chairs neatly pressed in around it. There were some dirty dishes in the sink, but it was all so…domestic, and cheery, and organized clutter, that Gigi couldn't help but smile. Next came the dining room, neat and formal, and finally, a den - where a desk, several bookshelves, a chair, and a side-table all contained neat stacks of books and journals and papers. None of the furniture matched, but somehow…it all matched – it fit in perfectly. Gigi already loved the house. "It's…perfect," she breathed.

"Being home, or the cooking? Or both?" A voice said from behind her, and she gasped and jumped and turned around, and there was Mary Morstan.

She was shorter than Gigi had pictured her, but filled with a sort of self-assured energy that made her seem larger, somehow. Her short blonde hair accented her light eyes, and she suppressed a smile as she took in the girl before her.

"Well, come here, and let me look at you!" She exclaimed.

Gigi smiled and obediently stepped forward from behind the chair.

Mary took her in, and apparently liked what she saw. "Two inches, at least! You're looking good, girl. It's thinned you out, though. You hungry? Your mum's been working nonstop to make this meal for you." She sounded proud. "Have fun at camp, then?"

"Yeah!" Gigi nodded enthusiastically, grinning as she thought Lydia would. "It was fun. Loads, actually. But I'm glad to be home. Oh – Toby?!" She cried, as a mewing, fat gray tabby lazily wound around Mary's ankles before making his way to Gigi.

She squatted down to greet him, but he raised his hackles, and hissed, and darted away.

Mary frowned. "Strange old thing. Must be going senile. He always loves you, Lydia." She gave her a strange look.

Gigi laughed nervously, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just…smell like camp, is all."

"Mmmhmm," Mary agreed, staring at Gigi for another moment before breaking into a smile. "All right, then – enough standing around. Go upstairs and help your Mum unpack, Lydia, before she spoils you and does it all for you."

Gigi was about to apologize – and then caught herself and grinned, then rolled her eyes. "Fine…you've uncovered my nefarious plot. I suppose I have no choice now but to be forced into slave labor."

Mary swatted her shoulder affectionately as she walked past. "And, Ms. Sass is back. Glad you're home, love!" She called after her, as Gigi made her way up the stairs to her room.

Gigi did her best to eat a lot at dinner – she really did. Practically deserved a medal for her Herculean effort to down as much food as possible. (And Lydia was right – that bread was delicious.) But she was stuffed before she'd even finished everything on her plate. And when Mary went to put more on said plate, she held up her hands in surrender. "Mary – Mum – thank you, really! I…I am just so full. I can't eat another bite."

Mary and Molly exchanged concerned glances, and Molly moved to place a slender hand on Gigi's forehead. Ducking, Gigi insisted – "I'm fine. Really. I'm just…full. Must be my…body adjusting, or something."

She hoped Toby liked human food, because apparently she was going to have to exacerbate his weight problem if she was going to pull off this deception. Did her sister have a hollow leg or something?!

"All right," Molly said doubtfully. "But let me know if you're not feeling well, all right? Sometimes you can pick up a nasty germ on an airline."

Gigi smiled at her mother. "I will. But I'm fine."

Mary began clearing the table, and cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows at Molly.

Molly frowned at Mary, and sighed, and then began fidgeting with her hands on her lap. It was a tiny motion – a small, subconscious thing, rubbing her ring finger with her thumb – but Gigi had overheard enough cases with her father to know what that meant. And for Gigi – a motion like that could only mean trouble ahead.

Molly smiled timidly at her daughter. "I'm excited to hear all about camp, Lydia. And a lot has happened here in eight weeks, too." She took a breath. "I got that grant I applied for – the one for furthering my research on cellular regeneration? Apparently they received some extra money this year. And I'm going to be giving a conference next weekend on-"

Gigi jumped at the chance to focus on this particular development, dreading any other further announcements by her newfound mother. "You did?! That's great, Mum! I knew you'd get it, though. They'd have to be stupid not to give it to you."

"Lydia!" Molly scolded, but her eyes were smiling.

"Well, it's true," Gigi persisted, pushing the remainder of her food around her plate with a fork, hoping to make it look like she'd taken just a few more bites. "You're brilliant, Mum. The best. So what exactly are you going to do? For your experiment?"

And Gigi sighed in relief as her mother began explaining her research, her other announcement long forgotten.

Later that night, as Gigi lay asleep on the couch as the closing credits of Roman Holiday played across the screen and Molly was tidying up stray pieces of popcorn, Mary gently confronted her friend.

"You didn't tell her, Molly." She bent down to help collect the few pieces that had gone under the chair in the midst of a mother-daughter popcorn flinging war.

Molly sighed, sitting back on her heels. "I know, Mary. I know. It's just…it's been just the two of us for so long. I wanted…I wanted one more night of this."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "You're already missing being single? Molly-"

"No, no!" Protested Molly, holding up her hands in defense. "That's not what I meant. I just meant…" she sighed, and fiddled with the end of her braid, which was lopsided and smushed now after her evening watching movies with Lydia. Lydia had been particularly cuddly tonight – not that Molly minded in the least – but Molly knew that this sweet and cuddly streak would not last forever, and in all honesty, her daughter did not deal well with change – like her father. "I just meant, I know this will be a big change for her, and I wanted to give her one last night of…us. Us as a duo, instead of a trio." She smiled at her friend.

Mary sighed, then smiled. "I know. But you've got to tell her soon."

Molly nodded. "Tomorrow. I'll…tell her tomorrow."

London, England

Later that evening, after 'Gigi' was tucked safely away in her bed upstairs, curled into a ball with her arms around a pillow, Sherlock sat thinking in his armchair as John cleaned up the remnants of their take-away.

John gave him a glance. Sherlock's arms rested on the chair's, and he scowled as he leveled a gaze across the room at the wall. If John didn't know better, he'd say it looked like Sherlock was attempting to use the Force to cause spontaneous combustion, or something equally ridiculous. But he also knew his friend, and he knew that his frustration was simply a mask for the sadness he felt at seeing his daughter grow up. And perhaps, residual sadness from…before.

"Sherlock?" John asked casually, wiping down the countertops.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

"Her hair does look good."

Sherlock looked up at him sharply. "Whether it looks good or not isn't the issue, John. Those ends looked like they were cut nine to ten weeks ago…not six to eight. But she couldn't have cut her hair before she went to camp."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, then maybe you're as rusty as those scissors she got it cut with. She's growing up, Sherlock. Her hair's bound to grow faster or slower at times."

"Mmm," Sherlock grunted again, but his face was less…bothered, now.

"And how does that…make you feel? Her shorter hair?" John pressed, seeing Sherlock relax a bit.

"Why would I feel any particular way about her hair, John? You know I've always said it would be much more practical to wear it short. Less tangles, less mess, less…shedding." He scoffed.

John smiled a little half-smile and nodded. "I know you say that, Sherlock." He hesitated a moment, and continued. "But…longer…she always…looked…more like…" he paused, noticing Sherlock's jaw clench.

"More like what, John?" Sherlock said stiffly.

John sighed, and his heart hurt just a bit for his friend. Sherlock had messed up with Molly – and though it was a sad shock to see her go, John couldn't exactly say he blamed her – but at the same time, he was just…a bit disappointed that she'd given up. And Sherlock was still hurting about it. But John had hope that his friend would recover. He was hurting, but he hadn't…deleted anything, about their relationship. And he had Gigi, who was a Godsend. She'd unknowingly done so much to heal her father's broken heart.

He sighed. "More like her mother."

Sherlock did not move. "I see no reason why that should matter at all to me."

John shook his head. "No," he muttered. "You don't."

Still, hours after John had left and Sherlock was wide awake, laptop in front of him, clicking through cases – Sherlock succumbed to temptation and opened a saved file, long hidden amongst other documents, and his lips twitched into a rueful smile.

"He's suspicious, sir," Anthea said quietly, interrupting Mycroft's thoughts on the rising tensions between two groups of insurgents in Egypt.

He looked sharply up at her, and frowned. It took him all of three seconds to realize she was referring to her brother.

He sighed. "Any change in status or word from Mary?"

Anthea shook her head. "No change, sir. Apparently Gigi has managed to hold her own in California. Lydia has done an admiral job, however. He's merely mildly suspicious of her haircut, and nothing else."

"Mmm," sighed Mycroft. "I suppose I shall have to offer him a mildly diverting case, to keep his mind off of Lydia."

He began typing furiously on his laptop. "Ah. A nice seven should prove distracting enough. Tomorrow morning, Anthea, I will be paying a visit to my dear brother."

She nodded brusquely, fingers already flying on her mobile.

She smiled to herself as she turned to leave Mycroft's office. She barely heard him mumble as he shook his head – "The lengths I go to to ensure my stupid brother's goldfish have happy lives."

The lengths you go to to ensure your stupid brother doesn't ruin his happiness with that oversized brain of his, Anthea corrected silently to herself.

As always, please review if you have time!

Thanks for your support!

Also, P.S. - This summer I have discovered Hilary McKay's books, which I mentioned in this chapter. She is a fabulous children's author from the U.K. and I already love all of the books I've read that she's written.