ITLE: It Takes a Village

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Eight/Adventures in Babysitting

RATING: T (language, content)

A/N: Even MORE Sherlock/babyWatson cuteness. So this is the original flashback. Confused yet? I shall distract you from your frustration at my terrible timeline with fluff! If you don't know, the chapter title is from an 80s movie. And I really hope you recognized the last two chapter titles!

Please read and review, many thanks.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

Chapter Eight: Adventures in Babysitting

Babies were boring.

Or at least, that's what Sherlock would tell someone if asked.

But, in secret, to the genius, they were absolutely fascinating. Minds to mold. Blank canvases. And not vacant from years of disuse or stupidity. Ignorance and unintelligence were entirely different. Even Sherlock recognized this.

Children didn't balk at his abilities. Sometimes older ones were actually quite captivated by it. He found that odd. When he himself had been young, his peers had thought him to be a freak. Now that he was an adult, children at that same age instead assaulted him questions and intrigue. Not all of them were like Archie, would he still secretly exchanged emails with, and were necessarily fond of the more grotesque side of his work. But the majority seemed enthralled by his observations and attitude.

Mary had once teased that it was because Sherlock was still a kid himself.

Billie was an infant and couldn't exactly express interest in his particular skill set, but she still seemed to be raptured by him nonetheless.

And as he was with her.

She would calm at his deep voice and just stare up with wide eyes at him as he spoke with others, to himself or read aloud.

Sherlock used this to his advantage. Most kids were only this captivated for so long before they started to grow older and waste their brains away on silly games and telly, and soon enough relationships and sex – and more telly.

Mary and John were already above average in Sherlock's standards. They were both clever and therefore Sherlock knew their daughter was already going to be ahead of the curve. And he was going to do everything in his power to push her even further.

His first endeavor in babysitting had barely begun and he had already taken Billie up to 221B, settled the two of them in his chair and had gone over several pages of The Children's Encyclopedia by Arthur Mee when he switched to The Lamplighter by Maria S. Cummins. A sentimental novel, but a classic nonetheless. He already had lesson plans in place for the first several years of the child's existence, with correlating selected books and articles. He had found sticking to one thing in particular to be tiresome in his youth and often needed to switch between books or activities, if not do them simultaneously, to keep his brain stimulated. Therefore, he had transferred this into his instructions. He would spend time on the sciences, literature – Shakespeare, classics and the like; nothing with silly storylines or ridiculous illustrations, and so forth.

"'Good God! to think upon a child/That has no childish days,/No careless play, no frolics wild,/No words of prayer and praise.'" Sherlock paused. "That was a quote, at the beginning of the book," he explained casually to the infant. "Authors do that sometimes. Quotes, poems. Simply more sentiment. But, on with it," He cleared his throat. "'It was growing dark in the city –"

Sherlock paused and scowled at his phone vibrated in his pocket. He considered ignoring it, but then thought that it could be John or Mary asking for updates. If he didn't respond, one of them could surely come charging through the front door, assuming he was using their child for experiments.

It was, in fact, neither of the parents.

The first was a text message from Lestrade, the second a file containing information on a new case. He skimmed the details. It was certainly interesting. Three victims in two days. No definable cause of death. No connection between victims. 32 year old female, American. 65 year old male, Australian. And 18 year old female, Pakistani. Completely different countries. No records as to how they ended up in London. Intriguing.

He glanced from his phone to the bundle on his lap, then back to phone.

"Sherlock," Lestrade spoke the single word slowly. "What is that doing here?"

"That," Sherlock scoffed, "Is an infant. Not an 'it'."

"I know what – my go – Sherlock, is that Billie?"

"Excellent deduction work, Lestrade," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You brought John's kid to a crime scene," Greg ran a hand over his face. "You're barely allowed here, I can't clear you havin' a kid with you. And I don't think John would think too keenly of you doin' this. Does he know?"

"Stop bothering me with boring questions, Lestrade," Sherlock waved the chief inspector off. "She is perfectly safe."

"She's a baby, Sherlock," Greg pressed. "She shouldn't be seeing stuff like this."

"She won't be seeing anything except the inside of the cab," Sherlock huffed. "I've paid the driver a handsome amount of money to look after her."

"John told me you had the entire neighborhood screened before she was born, and now you're just handing her over to some bloody stranger," Lestrade shook his head.

"People are quite motivated by money," Sherlock shrugged. "The cab will remain on the side of the street, where I can see it at all times. Now stop worrying and show me the body before it decomposes."

Reluctantly, the Detective Chief Inspector led Sherlock over to where a very bloody, beaten and blue corpse was posed behind the skip. It was the third one in under 48 hours. Not a single trace of physical evidence left on any of the victims. No obvious cause of death, even with the blood. Because it wasn't the dead party's blood. Not a single mark decorated the victims.

It took Sherlock less than ten minutes to solve the puzzle.

Rather smugly, Sherlock straightened himself and smoothed his coat. That arrogant air vanished, though, as his eyes drifted toward the street.

The empty street.

Greg followed the man's shockingly stricken gaze and was just making the connection when he noticed Sherlock sprinting down toward the mouth of the alley with alarming speed. Lestrade hastily followed, calling out orders along the way.

He came upon Sherlock just as the man was digging his fingertips into his temples. Lestrade had seen this enough to know what the consulting detective was doing and to not interfere. After several seconds, Sherlock took in a breath and snapped open his eyelids.

"Come on," Greg gestured toward his car.

"No!" Sherlock was already breaking into a run. "Faster on foot!"

"Damn it," Greg glanced back at his team and then and the fleeing man. "Sherlock!"

Throwing back his head, Lestrade took after the madman. He was still trying to catch up as he radioed for backup.

They turned down side streets and cut through alleyways, Sherlock never once wavering in his direction. Lestrade fell further behind as Sherlock scaled and leapt over a fence with impressive swiftness and skill.

Sherlock couldn't help but be pulled back to that first night after he had met John. Of chasing down the cab, down streets and across rooftops. Of proving the point of his friend's psychosomatic limp. John hadn't hesitated before pursuing the suspect with the detective he had barely known. Their relationship had been set in stone the evening John killed the cabbie, but it had sparked that night while scrambling across London. He recalled John's laugh before outrunning the police, and then again once safely back at Baker Street. Remembered the unfamiliar feeling of camaraderie, of friendship.

Sherlock had inflicted enough damage upon John Watson over the years, both intentionally and unintentionally to have fractured any other friendship. But somehow, John stood by him.

The detective was sure that would most certainly change if anything happened to his daughter under Sherlock's care.

And Sherlock would have no one to blame but himself.

And he would. For the rest of his sorry existence, he would know exactly what he had done.

To John. To Mary.

To Billie.

Because Billie was as much of a part of his heart now that John was. She was a piece of his best friend, and therefore and piece of Sherlock himself. He would never openly admit it, but the child had someone squirmed past his stony defenses.

So yes, losing Billie would destroy John and Mary.

And it would destroy Sherlock for destroying John and Mary

But it also would destroy Sherlock to lose Billie.