The three days that passed were fairly uneventful. Watson could still feel tension around the house, but he and Holmes could sit and chat, or on one particular occurrence, have a nice debate about the scientific benefits of honey. His practice was beginning to grow again, old patients thrilled to hear of his return. Whenever he went out, she asked Mrs. Hudson if she would watch Jean for him; he felt bad for it, it was not her job after all, but she always assured him that she was happy to keep an eye on the girl. Nevertheless, he had been making plans to find a nanny, though he knew it would be a heavy blow to his funds. Every time he thought of it, he missed his wife more and more, but he could not allow himself to think like that, or he would surely lose his mind.

As for Holmes, well... despite Lestrade's visit those days prior, he'd yet to find a case that would provide the mental stimulation he so craved. It worried the doctor. He could see the traces of boredom that had long ago become familiar to him. He no longer locked himself in his room, but he walked as if weights had been placed on his shoulders, and there was a dimness to his usually sharp, calculating eyes. Holmes' energy was almost nonexistent- he would sulk in his chair, staring at the fire for long periods of time. Jean had noticed as well, it seemed. She would attempt to talk to him, but while he tolerated this, his responses were monosyllabic at best, and dejected, she would give up and find something else to do. Watson wasn't sure what to do. What if Holmes turned to his drugs? He did not want Jean to be around for that. And his experiments! While some were mostly harmless, there were others... he shivered at the very thought of them.

Holmes wasn't the only one growing bored either. He would catch Jean peering out the window, watching the going-ons. She wanted to do something, to play outside as she did in the country, but he was simply too busy attempting to rebuild his practice to take her places right now, and Mrs. Hudson could not keep an eye on her whilst she was out running her errands. Watson promised himself that the moment he found a free day, he would take her out.

Watson grabbed a washcloth, using it to wipe away the last of the shaving cream on his face. Running a hand over his jaw, he nodded in approval when he felt that he had left no stubble behind. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called as he stepped out of the bathroom, cringing as he realized that, shouting to her like that, he reminded himself a little more of Holmes. However, he was already a little late, and could not waste time to run down to speak to her and run back up to finish what he was doing. Finding a mirror, he fixed his collar and began to tie his necktie. When he received no response, he furrowed his brows. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Do try not to wake the grave, old boy," Holmes spoke up from his armchair, tilting his head back in order to see the doctor. "Mrs. Hudson is not in the house."

"You have been louder than I-" Watson started his dry response, but cut short when Holmes' words registered in his mind. Turning to face the detective, his eyes went wide. "What do you mean she is not in the house? Is she in the garden?"

"No." Holmes pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and closed his eyes, sinking back into his chair. "She left early this morning." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded up note and holding it up for his friend to see. Watson snatched it, his eyes scanning over the words once, twice, and then a third time, his heart sinking.

"Her sister-! Holmes, why did you not tell me sooner?" He checked his pocket watch, dread filling the pit of his stomach. "I am already late, I do not have time to find someone else!" He began to fret, pacing back and forth. "What am I to do?"

"I discovered the note only this morning," Holmes claimed his innocence, peering at his friend once more and watching him. "Surely you have been searching for a nanny-"

"Of course I have, but I can not simply hand my child to someone I have not even met yet!"

What was he to do? He glanced at the door to his room, where Jean was still curled up and sleeping. He could not take her to work with him. It was far too unprofessional to do so without any warning to his patients. Was there no one he could trust with his daughter? The thought brought a pause to him, and his eyes flickered to the detective. As if following his thoughts - it would not have been the first time he had - Holmes' eyes narrowed.

"No, Watson."

Watson moved in front of the armchair to face his friend, resting a hand on each arm as if to assure that he would not escape. "Holmes, please!"

Feeling him closer, the detective pursed his lips, pressing himself further back into his seat. "Absolutely not."

"I have no other options!"

"Watson-"

Watson shifted suddenly so that he was kneeling in front of the detective - Holmes felt a moment of sympathy as he thought of how that might irritate his leg - taking one of his hands and looking up at him. Already, he felt himself wavering. "I beg of you, Holmes! I can trust no one else!"

Holmes turned his head to the side, attempting to break his gaze away from Watson's pleading eyes. "Watson, you are making a spectacle of yourself," he grumbled, his eyes flickering toward him again. He regretted the action immediately, as he felt himself break. He could not say no, not when his friend looked at him so desperately, and was so close to him. Withdrawing his hand, attempting to fight of those warm feelings that coursed through him, he finally nodded shortly.

The other lit up with relief, allowing Holmes to pull away, for he knew how averse he was toward touch. "Thank you Holmes." He pulled himself up again, cringing at the twinge that shot through his leg. He found his walking stick and hurried for his coat and hat. "I will return as soon as possible, I will attempt to push back some of my appointments. " He was waved off by the sulking detective and, knowing that any delay might cause the man to change his mind, he hurried out. It was not until he was sitting in a cab that he realized it may have been a bad idea.

Holmes stared down at his hand, hating himself for being so weak. He had gotten himself into a situation he knew nothing about, and all thanks to John Watson. Sighing, he flexed his fingers, trying to rid himself of the feeling of the doctor's hands on his own. The man would be the death of him, he was sure of it. What was he supposed to do, he wondered. What does one do when caring for a child? Part of him wished he'd been paying more attention to Mrs. Hudson when she had been keeping an eye on the girl. He knew they often cooked and baked, but he had no experience in those matters either. Watson would read to her, or tell her stories, but he had no interest in the romanticisms laid out by the authors of most of the late Mrs. Watson's books, nor did he think Jean would find any interest in the types of things he himself read. As for story-telling... well, Watson would not much appreciate whatever stories he had. What then?

"Mr. Holmes?"

The sleuth's eyes snapped as he heard the voice. Jean was standing in front of him now, still dressed in her night clothes and rubbing those big blue eyes of hers. "Did Daddy already leave?"

Holmes pursed his lips again. "I am afraid so."

"Oh... Okay. " She turned to the door to head downstairs, knowing that Holmes did not like to be bothered.

"Wait a moment, Miss Watson." She stopped, looking to him curiously. Holmes shifted, uncomfortable with this entire situation. "Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister. I will be watching you." The girl looked just as surprised as he had been, but a moment later her face lit up, which he hadn't been expecting.

"Really?"

Another uncomfortable shift. "Yes, really. I would not have said so if it was false."

She sat down on the tiger-skin rug, peering up at him. "Okay. What are we going to do, then?"

"Uh..." He looked around, wondering the same thing. He knew she liked to draw, but she had grown bored with that days ago. No drawing, no cooking, no stories... He remembered that she liked to climb trees, though, and if she could entertain herself that way, then it seemed that he would not have to do too much. "We will go to the park."

He couldn't help feeling pleased with himself when the look of delight passed over her face. "Okay!" she stood up, turning around and running to hers and Watson's room, probably to get ready. Holmes slowly pushed himself up, starting toward his own room when he heard her voice again, "Mr. Holmes?"

Stopping, he bit back a sigh, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Will you help me?"

What was there to help with? She was just going to- he realized once again that she was only four. Berating himself for his own absentmindedness, he nodded, joining her in Watson's room. He found the dress she wanted with little difficulty, turning his back as she put on the first layer, and then assisting her with the rest of it. He quickly and skillfully set buttons, lace, and ribbons in their proper place. Jean watched him, smiling the entire time.

"You are much better at this than Daddy is."

Holmes snorted in amusement, imagining Watson struggling to learn the intricacies of these dresses. However, the child's dress was simple compared to that of anything in women's fashion. "I have been forced to learn such things for certain occasions."

"What kind of occasions?"

Holmes paused. "Well... I will leave such stories to your father. I am certain he will tell you some day." He was fairly sure that she still did not know that he was 'the detective' that Watson told stories of. Jean looked a little disappointed, but she nodded, knowing it would do no good to push when Holmes said 'no.' "However, I am afraid that I am still incapable of styling hair. Unless you can do it yourself-"

She smiled again, clearly amused. "I can wear a bonnet." Holmes nodded, digging through drawers assisting her with the bonnet.

"Now wait here while I get dressed."

"Yes sir."

He was relieved. So far, this was turning out to be fairly simple. Holmes changed into something decent for public. Lastly, grabbing a coat and hat, he called to hear at the bottom of the stairs. Jean hurried down, a wide smile on her face. "Hurry up, Mr. Holmes!" he told him, opening the door and bouncing outside to the sidewalks. Holmes locked the door behind him, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Are we taking a cab?"

"It is not far, we can walk," he responded, and she nodded, not seeming too put off by this. She followed him as he started off, looking in fascination at everything they passed. Holmes realized that it was her first time actually walking through the great city, or probably any city, for that matter. She was used to the small town at her former country home. In fact, as they neared crowds, she seemed to become a little more nervous, moving closer to him.

"There are a lot of people."

"Yes, London is a very busy place." His eyes flickered one way and then the other, taking in minor details about people, and deducing from these glances their occupations and lives at home.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Ms. Watson?"

"Can I...?" she trailed off and he had to look down at her to see what it was she wanted. A small hand was reached out to him, blue eyes peering up at him pleadingly.

Holmes felt an odd moment of deja vu. Had her father, not only a short time ago, looked up at him in the same way? "I- uh..." he looked down at her hand, not entirely sure what to do. Finally, after eliminating every other option in his head, he sighed, reaching down and taking her hand in his. Delight painted over her features, she moved closer to him, warily watching the crowds as they walked. It was... strange to walk like this. Jean's small fingers grasped his own larger ones, ensuring herself that she would not be lost in the sea of people. She trusted him to hold on, and to not let her go.

When they arrived at the park, Holmes quickly pulled his hand free of her grasp, pushing down those warm feelings in his chest. She didn't seem to mind, thoroughly distracted. "Look, Mr. Holmes!" she ran ahead to a pond, pointing out the ducks that swam around in it. Holmes sat down and watched, attempting to sort through his thoughts. She reminded him of Watson in many ways. It was a more frightening thought than it should have been.