It's probably not good when the author of the fic announces "Yay, it's getting good again..." but we are getting to the bit that I've wanted to write for ages!

Thank you to all who have reviewed and read this. It's kept me going through the sticky patch :)

Last Chapter: Sherlock and John took Ava to the hospital, Sherlock has been struggling with the problem of Moriarty's potential framing of John and Mycroft has been handling Moriarty.

Note: Part of this chapter coincides with "Tea and Coffee". I'm sure you know which bit if you've read it!

As always, thank you to swissmiss for the fab editing :)


20th May

They'd disappeared behind the doors. John, being Ava's father, had been allowed through.

Sherlock had not and it hadn't been the right time to argue with the procedure, not when Ava looked so pale and fragile.

How had it happened? She had been with them all night; why hadn't he seen? Why hadn't he questioned her about her visit to the idiots' house?

Pacing was annoying. It did nothing useful and the dull, white corridors did not help matters. With nothing to see, nothing to catalogue and distract his mind while he turned over facts and data, Sherlock simply sat on the uncomfortable plastic seats that were attached to the wall as if he couldn't be trusted to pull out a chair.

He should have checked on her; before, after John woke up. He should have checked and seen something. Frustrated, he ran a tense hand through his hair, clutching at it as if for help, as if he could physically pick himself up and throw himself back a few hours.

But it was impossible, impractical to wish for such foolish things, he knew. Sliding his hands down from his scalp, Sherlock turned to stare at the doors again.

"Immediate family only."

But John had given his permission to Sherlock. John would probably have argued with them had he the time to spend on such things. It made something inside ache fiercely; Sherlock's claim to Ava relied on John, completely on John.

Lose John, lose Ava. The two people that had become pillars of necessity in his life like air and The Work. To lose one would inevitably mean losing the other.

Such things were not worth thinking about. They were like a cliff in his mind. The drop would be so sheer and sudden, he doubted he'd ever be able to climb back up.

Best not to dwell on that. He shook himself; it was better to focus on what he could change, on what he could control.

John would keep Ava safe and Sherlock would keep John safe and free from the consequences of his involvement with Moriary, he decided, staring at the wall as if the map to the plan would suddenly appear. That was all there was to it.

Shoes squeaked on the floor, the sound as familiar that idiotic programme John watched at the same time nearly every day. The shoes sounded a little different, as if Mycroft had slipped into them without aligning the heel, sock and shoe in his usual careful manner.

His brother had been asleep then, woken up by the security detail across the street.

At least they were proving vaguely more effective this time around.

"He's in with them," Sherlock announced, keeping his eyes on Mycroft's shoes. He half wondered if his brother could hear the full measure of the tumbled emotions the sentence carried.

A polystyrene cup was presented to him wordlessly. Knowing how snobbish Mycroft was about his liquid intake, Sherlock could safely assume that the coffee was the best available for at least five minutes in any given direction.

It was, however, unfortunate that his brother liked his coffee milky, as it almost obscured the taste under the added creaminess.

"Food poisoning?" Mycroft asked eventually, taking a seat in the plastic excuse for a chair.

Sherlock nodded and took another sip.

"The other child is here," Mycroft said calmly. "It was the chicken?"

Yes-

Sherlock froze mid-nod.

If the other child was here that meant that the parents were here as well; the people that had given his Ava food poisoning.

A glance at Mycroft's face and the fading white around his knuckles indicated that Mycroft had recently walked past them, which meant they were close and within easy reach.

John was busy, taking care of Ava while Sherlock sat useless. But this, this Sherlock could take care of. Protect both John and Ava in one fell swoop.

"It will not help her recover," Mycroft warned, clearly sensing Sherlock's intent.

Ignoring his brother, Sherlock stood and dumped the disgusting coffee in the flowerpot without breaking his stride. Mycroft made a noise that could have been either annoyance or simply a weary sigh at the idea of standing once again.

Storming down the halls, retracing Mycroft's path, Sherlock strode through into a waiting room, where he vaguely recognised the dull idiots who had utterly failed to look after his daughter for three hours.

The husband was having an affair; the wife knew and was trying to create a perfect but sterile home. Both were far more concerned with appearances and their own lives. They were pale now, both sitting, clutching their hands together like the condemned awaiting execution.

It was fitting, really.

Mrs Coleman looked up first and frowned with some recognition. "Are you on the staff?" she asked hopefully, trying to sniff away the tears.

"No," Sherlock said icily.

"Our daughter's in there," the husband, hissed angrily. "Go away."

"You made them eat it." It was strange how calm he felt, as if all the anger and terror was locked away somewhere where he was aware of it but unable to wholly feel it. "The chicken soup, you made them eat it."

"It's the boyfriend," Mrs Coleman said dismissively, looking away. Her husband gave her a funny look. "Ava's father's partner."

There.

That distance. The stepping stones of relation that he would always have to navigate. And then there was the look that followed, the look that said he couldn't possibly understand what was going through their tiny, boring little heads because Ava wasn't his flesh and blood.

Who cared about flesh and blood? She was more than that.

The dismissal, as if his opinion wasn't valid now that they knew who he was, simply infuriated him.

"You won't even ask how she is? Offer an apology?" he asked, his voice sounding distant.

"Our concern is for our daughter-"

That earned them a bitterly snorted laugh. "Pity your concern didn't occur earlier, or did the pathetic dance of adultery just seem far more fun than checking on your daughter?"

"You are not a parent-"

That statement knocked the wall down as if it were made of paper. All if a sudden the blinding fury overwhelmed him and he threw whatever was in his reach at their heads.

It turned out to be a vase of flowers.

Glass shattered against the wall and water sprayed everywhere. Mycroft barely flinched while the Colemans jumped in surprise, Mrs Coleman to the side and her husband up to his feet.

"How dare you-"

"How dare I?" Sherlock snarled. "How dare I? You feed my child gone off chicken, you put her in a hospital and you have the gall to ask how dare I?" With a dangerous smile he stepped closer. "I could end everything you care about in three days, less if he" - with this he jabbed a finger at Mycroft - "feels like interfering and helping."

"Clearly the little brat has picked up bad habits from you," Mr Coleman hissed back, eyes alight with anger. "I don't know who you think you are, but you need to learn how to speak to people, just like she does."

She does? What had Ava said to him that would prompt-

Suddenly Ava's little voice echoed back to him, weak and shaking.

"It tasted like washing up liquid."

"She told you," Sherlock breathed suddenly. "She told you she didn't want to eat it and you made her."

Behind him, Mycroft shifted slightly.

"She was rude-"

Sherlock hit him. He did it as hard as he could and watched with satisfaction as the husband stumbled back against the wall, sliding down and clutching at his nose.

"If she hadn't gotten up, if she wasn't smart enough to get up and ask for help we would both be at the morgue right now." Sherlock's stomach dropped at the mere idea behind his statement. "If John hadn't called you, even though your bitch of a wife whined about his lack of parenting skills to every parent in the school, your daughter would still be choking on her own vomit-"

Mrs Coleman sobbed suddenly, hands over her eyes, and all of Sherlock's fight suddenly drained away.

What was the point? What did he really expect to gain from this?

At a loss, he stared at her, trying to work out what to do next. The idea of walking back upstairs to wait seemed horrific, yet he had lost something vital to continuing this line of action.

"You may wish to consider, Mr Coleman," Mycroft said from his corner, "that for all your complaints about manners and propriety, Ava and John both in their own ways saved your daughter. An apology may be suitable here; it surely would not have taken much time to check the girls' dinner?"

Mr Coleman closed his eyes and looked away, his wife's hand reaching out for his.

"And given that my brother was once accused of deceiving all of London, rose from a very well documented and public suicide, and is irritatingly ignorant of the law when those he cares for are involved, you would do best to take his warning seriously."

Recognition suddenly sparked in both the Colemans' eyes.

"I do wish your daughter a speedy recovery," Mycroft continued in the same overly polite tone as he touched a hand to Sherlock's sleeve. "We should get going, Sherlock. I can only stay so long before the prime minister starts panicking. We both know how many mistakes he uses in his texts when that happens; it's a painful situation I would like to avoid."

Sherlock let Mycroft guide him out. "You never take texts from the prime minister," he muttered. "Your secretary deals with him."

Mycroft blinked at him. "Ah, well…there is always the risk that something of importance will come up."

Sherlock snorted, almost amused despite the situation.


Mycroft left him outside the door and disappeared again quite quickly after that.

"Poppy Coleman was without air for quite some time," Mycroft said when he returned. "The doctors are unsure how much damage occurred."

Sherlock glanced at the door. Ava had been breathing, talking, crying. John had been by her side the entire time, checking her airways, keeping them both calm.

He buried his mouth between his steepled hands

"Ava will be fine."

Sherlock nodded distractedly.


The door opened and Sherlock turned to see John. He looked exhausted. John nodded as Sherlock started to stand.

"She's fine," he said.

Relieved beyond anything he'd ever felt before, Sherlock sank back down into the chair, wordless in his sudden ability to relax. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to the ceiling.

"Are you all right, John?" Mycroft asked. It sounded like he was standing.

"I think I just experienced what a heart attack feels like." John sounded almost hoarse. "God almighty." His voice came from lower down, as if he had just slid down the wall, and when Sherlock looked that was exactly what had happened.

"I can imagine," Mycroft said mildly.

No, he couldn't.

"I suppose I should go and sort out your mess," Mycroft said, suddenly sounding suddenly far more like his old self. "Explain that your lack of social etiquette is applicable to everyone."

"The coffee was disgusting," Sherlock complained, thinking of the far too creamy drink his brother had handed him earlier. "No wonder your diet is failing."

Mycroft nodded once, then turned and walked down the hall.

When Sherlock looked back , Johnwas staring at him. "You talked to Poppy's parents?"

"Yes." Technically there had been talking involved in their interaction.

"How is she?"

"She went without air for far too long. They won't know the damage until she wakes up."

"God." John closed his eyes. "I could fucking kill them," he snarled.

"Could be arranged," Sherlock offered.

John opened his eyes and looked at him, properly looked, and stopped his gaze on Sherlock's bruised knuckles. Under the weight of it, Sherlock flexed his hands and sighed. "I'll make a detective out of you yet, John," he said slowly.

"As long as you threw one for me as well." John shifted and then drew his legs up. "I can't stand up," he whispered. "I can't move, I feel so bloody relieved."

Sherlock silently agreed. He drew in a deep breath before saying, "This cannot be normal. People would never have more than one child if they felt like this after every illness."

John grinned. "We must just be cowards," he said with a long exhale..

Sherlock nodded. "Or just not as stupid as everyone else."

That earned him a weak chuckle from John. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "That too."

Summoning the strength to lean forward, resting his arms on his knees, seemed like a momentous achievement. "She's definitely all right?" Sherlock asked, hating the stupidity of the question and yet feeling the need to ask it.

"Yeah, like I said, she needed to regain the fluid faster than I could get it into her at the flat. And the temperature and-" John cut himself off. "Lots of boring medical stuff. But she is fine, just asleep."

Sherlock looked at the doors, almost unwilling to believe it until he saw Ava with his own eyes.

"Go," John said softly. "I would come with you but…I still seem to be having some issues with standing up."

With renewed energy Sherlock leapt to his feet, pausing to brush a kiss over John's head. John turned into him and took a deep breath, then nodded.

Accepting that they didn't really need to say anything more, Sherlock made his way to Ava.


There was an IV tube hooked up to her arm, and pads monitoring her pulse rate. Stupidly, he wanted to tear them out and insist she didn't need them.

But she did. That was the problem.

She was tiny in the bed, like a little doll lost in a sea of endless sterile white, and it was impossible not to cover her hand with his own, to anchor her to somewhere safe.

"You're not to do this," he ordered her. "Your father and I are bad enough at getting into scrapes. We do not need you taking after us."

Reaching up, he brushed the curled strands from off her face, pleased to see she had regained a more natural colour than the last time he had seen her.

"You are going to be fine, though," Sherlock declared suddenly. "You would never do something so stupid as to hide in bed, afraid of waking us up or upsetting us. Too clever. Too brave to imagine doing something like that." He thought for a moment of Ava, ill with food poisoning, going to the bathroom on her own and frowned. "But next time you are to come straight to me. When you're older we can discuss you handling such things on your own. And your father needs sleep; he is terribly grumpy without it. I will make the executive decision as to whether he needs to be involved."

Ava slept on.

"How are you doing this?" Sherlock murmured, studying the small hand in his. "You are small and rude and have the strangest way of looking at the world. You do not contribute to my work; if anything, you detract from it. You take up John's attention, you disturb my experiments, make it impossible to plan five minutes in advance, and you help Mycroft annoy me." Sherlock looked down at her face, genuinely confused. "How? How is it that…" He broke off, unsure of what he wanted to say or even if he wanted to say it.

"And you keep getting older," he added. "It's insufferable."

Shaking the thought away, Sherlock refocused himself. "You are not allowed to get hurt again. Or ill." The hand in his was smooth and plump, the fingernails dirty from her play, and there was a coloured-in love heart by the base of her thumb. Staring at it for the longest time, Sherlock ended up bowing his head over her hand, pressing a kiss to the drawing and feeling relief flood his system in a way cocaine could never match.

How long he sat like that he had no idea. He didn't until John came in and placed a steady, comforting hand on his back.

Raising his head at the contact, Sherlock turned his head slightly in John's direction. "I see your legs are functioning again."

"It comes and goes," John admitted, his thumb stroking a soothing pattern against Sherlock's t-shirt. "You okay?"

"When will she wake up?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the question.

John sighed and dragged a plastic chair closer, only to collapse onto it. "No idea. She must be exhausted. Mycroft filled out all the paperwork, by the way."

"It's his speciality," Sherlock replied. "He would make a wonderful secretary."

John smiled. "Probably," he agreed mildly.

"You tricked me." Sherlock turned to him, still holding Ava's hand. "Last night. You made me phone the ambulance because I thought it was more serious than it was."

John licked his lips, a nervous habit. "Yes," he admitted. "I would have been too calm. They'd never have sent it as quick."

"Good," Sherlock said. "Do that more often."

John laughed. "You are the only person I know who wouldn't think what I did requires a long and serious conversation."

"You put Ava's well-being above two minutes of my panicking." Sherlock screwed up his nose. "Surely we would need to talk if you hadn't done that."

John was grinning. "I love you," he said sounding almost giddy.

"And I approve of your deception," Sherlock replied.

John laughed again.


23rd May

Ava was home. Home and safe and Sherlock couldn't let her out of his sight.

At night when she went to bed he would pace nervously until, after half an hour, he would sneak upstairs and sit in her bedroom just to check that she was breathing evenly. Twice he had found himself emptying all the cupboards and the fridge to check all the food was safe for her to eat.

John seemed to have attached himself to Ava. He had always been a demonstrative parent, but now he sat with her on his lap as they watched a film, would carry her on his hip to make tea.

"We're both bloody useless," John sighed as they both sat on the floor in her bedroom.

"It only takes one of us to watch," Sherlock pointed out logically.

Neither of them moved.


25th May

Poppy Coleman had brain damage from the lack of oxygen.

Sherlock stared at Ava, watching as she giggled at something John had said. He still looked pale and shaken by the news.

What if Ava had been hurt that night, had lost part of what made her so Ava-like?

Would he have still cared for her the same?

Ava had her head resting on her arms. She turned it toward Sherlock and pulled a face at John's mother hen act.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead, beyond grateful that she wrinkled her nose at him as he did it.

"Why are you and Daddy being so silly today?" she asked, lifting her head in order to tilt it curiously.

Over her wild hair, Sherlock met John's eyes and held them for an age, neither of them able to say anything.


26th May

After his third check of Ava for the night, Sherlock wandered back down.

"She's fine-"

John's laptop was open and he was staring pale-faced at the screen.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, striding over. "What's-"

John turned the screen to face him.

It was John's blog.

Bored of big brother. Such a sweet looking family you all make…I do hope there aren't any skeletons in the closet…or floating up the river.

xxx

No.


See - plot is occuring! Finally :P