As though the devil itself were at his heels, Sherlock galloped into the sitting room. "Jessica!" he shouted like the world were ending. The girl snapped awake, gaping at the monstrosity of a man before her. "Jessica, listen, this is very important - so important the universe might depend on it if you don't answer!" He could sense John's alternating alarm and amusement even from where the doctor was in the kitchen as he knelt and grasped Jessica's shoulders.

"What, what?" she replied, zero-to-sixty in under a minute at the prospect of danger and adventure.

Leaning in closer to her, Sherlock asked, "What type of takeaway is best?" in a low, urgent voice.

There was a moment's pause while Jessica obviously thought very hard about the question. "Fish and chips?" she guessed.

Sherlock patted her on the shoulder, sagging comically with relief. "Oh, good, good, thank you, perfect." She giggled, able to see through his clever ruse. "Well, now that you're awake, I suppose introductions are in order. John? Come meet my new assistant."

Sheepishly, John ventured from the kitchen into the sitting room. "Hello there."

"Jessica, this is John Watson. John, this is Jessica."

For several moments, Jessica looked thoughtfully from one man to the other. Analyzing, Sherlock realized after a moment, she was analyzing how close to one another they were, their body language, the accidental coordination of their clothes. "Is he your boyfriend?" She had, shockingly enough, asked John.

The shorter man's eyebrows shot up. "Sorry?" he asked.

"Is Mister Homes -"

"- Holmes -"

"Is Mister Holmes your boyfriend?"

She was blinking so innocently up at them that Sherlock nearly smiled, but instead nodded at John, reminding him that he was the one Jessica had asked. Looking nervous and uncomfortable, John lowered himself to sit on the arm of the sofa. "Well, er, actually we're...do you know what partners are?" he asked, turning red around the ears.

Jessica nodded immediately, beginning to kick her legs against the side of the sofa. "My uncle Robby had a husband too. He was nice; he gave me my BaCoN t-shirt."

"Your bacon t-shirt?"

Her face lit up at the question. "Yes! Mister Hose -"

"- Holmes -"

"- Holmes, are my clothes sterilized yet?" she asked, tugging on Sherlock's arm until he was convinced he heard something pop. When John raised his eyebrows over her head, Sherlock rolled his eyes and prompted Jessica to tell the good doctor all about the rules of being a Very Important Scientist. "Oh! Well, the rules are that there's a Very Important Scientist uniform - that's this - and that you have to have clean hair - mine is even all squeaky, see? - and also...um...oh! Also! Very Important Scientists always ask for help when they need it!"

"Excellent," Sherlock praised with all the gusto of a 97-year-old history professor, patting her on the shoulder. "Shall we do an experiment with fish and chips next, then?"

"Yes!"

Either Mrs. Hudson's eyesight was going, or she had switched Jessica's clothes from the wash machine to the tumble-dryer under the assumption that Sherlock needed well-worn children's clothes in order to put her own things through the wash. Jessica was more than pleased to pull on her t-shirt and trousers while they were still warm, hardly even waiting to get to the bathroom before tripping out of Sherlock's unused shorts.

"See, it says 'bacon,' but it's actually the elements!" Jessica explained enthusiastically once she was dressed, laughing before she'd even started speaking. Sherlock shook his head at the ridiculous ingenuity while John grinned at Jessica's unstoppable giggling. "Do you wanna hear a science joke? What do you do with dead scientists?"

The grin on John's face had softened into something more tender when he looked at Sherlock, though as to why that was the detective was clueless. "What do you do with dead scientists, Jessica?" John replied.

Fighting so hard to keep from laughing that she had to bite her lip, Jessica practically shouted, "You Barium!" before collapsing into helpless laughter. Sherlock thought that there was something in his chest fighting to break free as Jessica supported herself by leaning against his hipbone. John narrowed his eyes with thought at the gesture.

"Schrödinger's cat walks into a bar, and doesn't," deadpanned Sherlock. The laughter of his tiny companion petered out as a bemused expression crossed her face. He could feel John's eyes on him and didn't care. "Don't tell me you don't know Schrödinger's cat." The barest hint of an eager smile beginning to form on her face, Jessica shook her head, and with an almighty groan of faux disappointment Sherlock hefted her up and then plonked her back down on the floor. "You have so much to learn. But first, fish and chips."

"Yes! Yes yes yes yes yes!" Jessica agreed ardently, practically climbing the detective like a tree in her excitement. John simply shook his head, watching them with an utterly dumbstruck expression on his face. But there was something else there too, something warm and bright and indescribable that made Sherlock want to run with how fast his heart was beating.

Shaking himself free of an apparent thoughtful lapse, John took up his coat again and offered Sherlock his. "Shall we go together, then?" he suggested. "What d'you think, Jessica?"

She had already somehow managed to climb halfway up Sherlock's back, arms looped around his neck and shoulders. "Uh-huh!" Her voice was muffled in the fabric of the detective's shirt, which was wrinkled and stiff from being in the bathwater earlier. He had to shake her off in order to put on his own coat and then wandered into the bedroom to find something suitable for her, as all she had was her worn-out t-shirt. She looked utterly ridiculous even in the old coat Sherlock dug out of the closet from his uni days. Though no Belstaff, it still hung nearly to Jessica's knees. But she seemed more than happy to swim in it, especially once Sherlock reluctantly allowed her to jump onto his back again.

It hadn't been because she looked cold.

John had to slip her trainers on for her. "I really like your shoes, Jess," he said, admiring the pink and how the shoes sparkled even through the grime. "Think they have a pair in my size?"

That imagery was too much even for Sherlock, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing with Jessica. Instead he studied the trainers, unable to draw himself away.

Not very old, only a few months at the most, and yet coated at least once with muddy water. Could have simply been one too many adventurous leaps into puddles, but there was a distinctive splash-pattern that suggested walking rather than jumping. The laces had been replaced once since she'd gotten the shoes and were already fraying in places despite obvious care shown by the concentration Jessica took in untying them. Her name had been written neatly on the inside in felt pen, most likely by an uncle or her dying father, but as both uncle and father had vanished from her life around the same time it meant the death had not been so long ago, only two months at the most. The weather had only gotten colder in the past week or so, which was why Jessica had no coat - she'd been packing light or perhaps lost it or thought she would find a home before the seasons changed. And yet she hadn't been in a care center, which suggested she'd run away after her father died to avoid CPS.

Conclusions: a relative had either been in the system or was a registered foster parent, and offhandedly told her stories about the experience, probably before her father was diagnosed - "a really long time" could mean only a year to a child. Her father bought her a new pair of shoes when he was given his prognosis. Her uncles bought her a new shirt as well, to soften the blow. For some reason they couldn't be her legal guardians - could be money troubles, if they were helping her father with his debts - and so when she heard she was going to be handed over to CPS she fled. She probably hadn't even waited until after the funeral, and therefore had had no closure.

Without realizing it, he'd made it down the stairs and onto the street while thinking, and had to carefully swallow the curious blockage in his throat before John or Jessica looked. "What's your surname, Jessica?" he asked. "I don't think it was on your resumé."

Resumé? he could see John mouthing at him, but ignored it in favor of the face hovering beside his with its pointy chin on his shoulder.

"Why?" she asked, suspicious.

Of course, police had probably asked her before. "Oh, never mind. It's not important, is it?" He dismissed the topic altogether as they watched the city glow with golden evening light. "Do you see that intersection? I once caught a criminal at that intersection. And over there is where, just last month, John here rugby-tackled a smuggler, if you can believe it."

Jessica gasped and swung round to Sherlock's other shoulder to look at John. "Did you really do that, Mister Watson?" she asked, admiration practically making her words glow in the air between them.

There already was a red tinge forming on the edges of John's ears. "Er, yes, I did." In actuality, he'd shot the smuggler, but they didn't need to tell Jessica that.