Mycroft dropped Greg (yes, Greg. He was Greg now) and the four kids off at the (ridiculously oversized and gorgeous) apartment he had rented for them. Andy and Sandry were delighted by the 'princess room' that 'Mr. Mycroft' had made for them.
"It's pink! And the beds have curtains!" Andy told him for about the twelfth time since they'd arrived an hour ago.
"And there's a fluffy rug!" Sandry added again. "And a tea party table! And all our dolls!"
Mycroft had sent people to get his girls' toys.
Ollie, who was seven and too old for princesses, loved her room, too. The decorator Mycroft had hired had done her research. She especially loved the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling.
"When I'm bigger, I'm gonna get a telescope. When I'm a lot bigger, I'll be an astronaut. Or Maybe I'll be a police lady."
Greg's room was simple. It was dcorated in brown and blue with a large bed and a full bookshelf.
The most interesting thing in his room was the book on the bed. Like the one Susan had made, it was full of documents and a handwritten narrative of his life.
Unlike Susan's, this one gave Greg that sense of nostalgia he had, until now, only gotten from cop shows.
Greg had not gone to sleep last night, instead spending his time poring over Mycroft's precise, elegant handwriting. Examining pictures of two men so clearly in love. Picturing the events of hundreds of stories and trying to remember them.
His girls, always early risers, came for him at noon (seven am for the jet lagged kids).
"Is there really no playgroup, poppy?" Andy asked, climbing into his lap. "Cuz Ollie says no, cuz we're not in New York."
"She's right, sweetie. You're not going to playgroup for a while. Instead you're gonna-"
And then he stopped because he had no idea what the girls were going to do here.
He'll he didn't know what to serve them for breakfast here.
Just as his freak out began, Ollie walked in with a plate of eggs.
"The man in the kitchen says to see if you're up and to give this to you. He made us pancakes and he says he should talk to you when you want to."
"Thanks, sweetie," Greg said, placing the book on the night table. He stood up slowly, groaning under the weight of the girl hanging off his neck.
He was exhausted. He had slept in the hospital, but had woken at 6. He'd taken a 7 hour flight to a different time zone. Seven hours flight and it was still 9 in the bloody morning! Three hours later and he was on his second seven hour flight of the day! And then it was past midnight. The girls were wide awake (it was only 7:30 for them and they slept on the plane).
And then he hadn't slept. He really didn't know how he was going to watch the girls all day.
Or Charlie.
Who was crying.
He walked into the hallway, dragging the foot Andy was wrapped around.
By the time he reached the kitchen, Charlie had stopped crying.
This was probably because the lun- Mr. Holmes was holding him as he set the table (sort of. He disnt seem to know where everything belonged) lecturing him on something about brains, time of death and a worm of sorts.
It confused Greg.
It amused Charlie.
It also amused Dr. Watson who was shaking as he stood over a frying pan.
"But the confounding effects of dose and time of death preclude conclusions about factors influencing the distribution of adult worms, Charleston Anaximander."
Sherlock was saying as he placed serving forks on each plate. "You don't understand this, but at least you listen. John tells me to shut up and use my mouth-"
"SHERLOCK!"