I have ideas to make this story a few chapters longer, but I don't want to drag it out longer and longer. Please review if you have a suggestion and know this chapter may be edited.

Amelie and John sat at the table over toast. John's tea sprayed steam into the early-morning air. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and finished pouring his cup of tea, pecking John on the top of the head as he sat. Neither of the men looked like they'd got enough sleep, although John showed it much more than Sherlock. Amelie's bleary sleep-fogged vision detected dark circles under his eyes, weighted down with tiredness. Still, the army doctor managed to keep up a cheery air, asking Amelie how she'd slept and other pleasantries.

Staring into his tea like it held the answer to life, the universe, and everything, John asked, "Any good dreams?" Sherlock rolled his eyes; he obviously didn't bank much on dreams. Amelie perked up, fidgeting a little in her chair.

"Yes!" she practically shouted. "I dreamed we had a birthday party here for you, John! Molly and Lestrade and Sherlock's brother and even Anderson, even though Sherlock doesn't like him, and Mrs Hudson baked a cake – it was brilliant!"

Sherlock cracked a smile at Amelie's comment on Anderson. John chuckled. "That would be a nice party," he said wistfully. Amelie rattled on for a moment more about the presents with spotted wrapping paper and the cake frosting smeared on Anderson's nose, but John was barely listening. It didn't seem like that long ago he'd brought Amelie there, but the girl in front of him was in no way the same one who trembled in his arms that night.

A bing from Sherlock's phone jolted John out of his reverie. Sherlock looked down at the screen, pocketing his mobile and calling over his shoulder, "Text from Lestrade. Be back for lunch."

….

Lestrade was dreading the news he had to deliver. The prim, proper woman next to him held a clipboard on her knee, stroking the hem of her posh skirt. Sipping his coffee, Lestrade did his best to ignore her. She tapped her pencil impatiently, not at all phased by the idea of meeting Sherlock Holmes, or as the tabloids preferred, "Living Legend Sherlock Holmes."

"So when will he be here?" she asked indifferently, like she could wait all day. Her tone held an icier edge, making Lestrade cringe. He'd known this was coming, but he had put it off far longer than he should have.

Before the detective inspector could reply, the great man himself darkened the doorway. "Oh, you're here," Lestrade stated lamely. "This is Ms Priscilla Wilkins, from Social Services."

Sherlock's heart dropped. He'd been expecting this, but not for a few days now. He knew it would break John's heart, but more than that, it would wound his. As much as he hated to admit closeness to any human besides John, Amelie had broken through. Sighing, Sherlock muttered, "You're here for Amelie."

Ms Wilkins nodded. "Yes, I believe the arrangement was she stay with your flatmate until her mother's killer was caught. And seeing as he's dead a few days by now, she's overstayed her welcome." Sherlock bit back a snide response. He wanted nothing more than to treat this lady like a female Anderson, but doing that wouldn't help Amelie's chances.

"She hasn't overstayed her welcome, Ms Wilkins. Quite contrary, we'd be delighted to have her stay. John – he's so much better now, Lestrade. Where would you take her?"

"An orphanage. Where else?" The terse response cut into Sherlock's logic. Ms Wilkins paused a moment, leaning forwards a tad, speaking slowly as if to an imbecile. "You have to see sense, Mr Holmes. Amelie's mother is dead. She isn't going to be wonderfully stable so soon after such a disaster – and I heard she was kidnapped while in your care? That she saw a man shot in front of her, and another killed? Not to mention the fact that you've supposedly returned from the dead, and your flatmate isn't in the best of conditions, I should think. Do you really think that you can provide this girl with the care and attention she needs?"

Lestrade watched Sherlock, who was working his jaw, eyes glancing back and forth in frantic thought. The eyes slowed, raised to Ms Wilkins' level. They showed defeat. "No. I don't."

…

"You can't make me go! You made me leave before, remember, and that didn't turn out great! LET ME STAY!" Amelie fought the hands carrying her to the car, Sherlock's strong hands lifting her up. John's sombre face could look only at his hands, dropping Amelie's things into the hands of the social worker. Sherlock put the tiny girl down on sidewalk, her little eyes blazing fury and hurt. Sherlock looked away. Why did he have to do this?

Kneeling on the pavement in his suit pants, Sherlock gathered Amelie into a quick hug. He whispered in her ear, "I will fix this."

John could hardly say goodbye. He held the girl in his arms, tears threatening to dive down his face. Amelie put her small hands on his back, leaning into him. She didn't want to let go. John held her an arm's length away. "You, Amelie, are amazing. Don't forget that and you'll do just fine." He stood shakily, crowding back into Sherlock's unwavering form. As the car pulled away, John turned into Sherlock, begging comfort.

…

Amelie watched John and Sherlock until they disappeared from view. She turned gloomily forwards, into the smiling face of Ms Wilkins babbling about the amazing children's home and how wonderful everything was going to be. She didn't hear a word of it. Watching London roll past out the window, all Amelie heard was John and Sherlock laughing at something she'd done, arguing over experiments, joking to make her smile. She could feel it all slipping away.

Here are some feels. You're welcome. Are you glad I'm not Moffat? And yes, I am in a bit of a ribbing-on-Anderson mood…so. I might edit this chapter or I might be lazy. Only like 2 chapters left now, though, unless I change my length…

Send me a review at once if convenient. If inconvenient, send anyway. :)