[Author's note: Sooooooooorry! I know, I know, I'm late! I wrote this chapter today and posted as soon as I finished to make it up to you. I already have the next one planned out, so it should be here soon! Read and review (pretty please?) and let me know of anything you want to read or if you have any prompts for me. I own nothing but OCs and a box of crackers.]

I don't really know why I am nervous. Sharing my thoughts with the whole world, that's kind of what I do. Well, when I say the whole world I sort of mean England. No matter. You get the gist. I am not afraid to write what I think and pressing that little Publish button at the corner of the webpage. Anyway, that's not why I'm here, that's not what you want to hear. You want to know the nitty-gritty of what happens with the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, the conker. First, I guess I should introduce myself: My name is John Hamish Watson, formerly Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I'm sure you know me better from my blog of the adventures I suffer through day to day with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Secondly, you probably want to know why I'm here, allowing you an insight into my brain when you could probably read my blog and find it more tolerable. Well, there are certain things I can't write on my blog regarding the world's only consulting detective, he'd have my head.

Can I just begin by pointing out that I am not, in fact, gay. I have no problem with gay people. For God's sake, my sister is a lesbian and I love her to the Moon and back (even if her drinking is appalling). It's just that it has been brought to my attention time and time again that everyone thinks that I am romantically involved with that goth-wannabe twig of a man and I will not stand for it. I am a married man, with a child and I deserve a little respect. Plus, I was shot! In war! Respect your veterans, you whipper-snappers! I am only here on behalf of Sherlock (even though he doesn't know it) to let you know little things that he thinks no one notices of him, when he thinks he's all by his lonesome.

Sherlock is a difficult man to understand, as you very well can tell. He has odd mannerisms that rise from only God knows where (his parents are very ordinary, nice people, after all) and as much tact as starving baby shark. You know, enough to get him by, but not enough that you don't want to punch him in the face every now and then. I cannot count the number of times I dreamt of the millions of ways I could kill him using only his nicotine patches, or just bashing his skull in with the cricket bat just when I decide that knocking him out cold was more than sufficient. Sometimes he warrants my tongue-lashings and violent behavior, but sometimes, when the day is quiet and he's just playing with Del in the living room, or reading a book with Addie perched beside him on his armchair, he takes on an almost human demeanor.

The first time I discovered Sherlock was not an android, as Greg keeps insisting Addie and I, was before the Fall. A rainy, English morning and he was standing in the bathroom doing something fantastically ordinary: he was shaving. Very like his upbringing, Sherlock was old-fashioned and classic. For all of his gadgets, his Chemistry and his reasoning, he liked the details of life in a different century. Shaving with hot lather and a straight razor was one of them. He would stand in front of the mirror for the better part of an hour, meticulously grazing down the side of his cheeks and jaw with the sharp blade, and with fantastic concentration, rid himself of whatever peach fuzz he has the nerve to call a beard. He usually liked to do it himself, unless Mycroft was insisting he use his personal barber, and he did it early in the mornings to avoid anyone watching him. As of lately, though, having his apartment filled with a female presence who was up at the crack of dawn, he had trouble concealing that minor detail of his life. More than once I had been by the flat to pick him up early for a case and I had found him sitting like a child on the seat of the toilet, sitting stock-still while Addie gracefully pulled the blade down his cheekbones. They didn't talk, they didn't make noise, they just were. Personally, I wouldn't let Addie with a straight razor within a mile of my person, but Sherlock seems to think she is just mentally sane enough to be allowed to use sharp objects around his jugular. Today, it seemed, was one of those days.

"Oi, lovebirds, where are you?" I threw my umbrella to the side and shook a few stray drops off my jacket. I sighed. The flat looked so different when it was clean. I was still not over the fact that it was in this state, that a woman lived here, that she slept in the same room as Sherlock and that Sherlock realized this and did not run away screaming. I grabbed a teacup and poured the tea Addie had most likely brewed when she woke and took a greedy sip. Sigh. Oh, that woman brewed a lithe splash of Heaven, she did.

"We're in the bathroom. You can come 'round. It's decent." Addie's happy tones called while I gave Cassiopeia a good scratch behind the ears, making her purr loudly and meow her approval.

Well, I can think of seventeen different things I would rather do than walk into a bathroom with those two. I would rather live my life in these lovely rose-tinted glasses I just found in my pocket instead of accidentally walking into a scene with Sherlock's wobbly bits. "Er… I'm not sure that's—"

"Oh, just come here, you big oaf!" She called with a decisive tone. I guess I was going to the bathroom.

Looking like a giant child, Sherlock sat on the seat of the toilet, staring up at the ceiling, letting Addie turn his face whichever direction she pleased and shaving down a section with little more than a flick of her wrist. Addie had learned this technique, I had discovered, from her father, and she used to be in the habit of giving him a wash every now and then when he looked, and I quote like a hobo. "Oh, Sherly is getting a big boy shave!" I could see the struggle of the man trying to decide whether he fancied to respond to my insults or leave the lip that was now being shaven, intact, and it almost tore him up inside to keep quiet. Instead, I got a rather rude gesture from his part involving his right hand and a very troubling hand movement. "You can't ask me for that in front of Addie, Sherlock. Not anymore!" Ok, so maybe I walked myself into the whole am I gay scenario in an occasion or two, but I swear I'm straight. Ask Mary. No, really, ask her. I need an ego boost. The stories she could tell you.

A small smirk crept onto Addie's lips, even if she gave an obligatory back off look. "Be nice, John. You know he's still upset that a girl stole his boyfriend." The glare he directed at Addie quickly vanished when she stared pointedly at the implement in her hand. Addie— 1000000 : Sherlock— 0. That woman would be the end of him, in the best sense of the phrase. I had never seen Sherlock swallow a response before Adelaide Villalobos became an active participant of life on Baker Street.

Huffing at the fact he had lost, yet another, argument, he allowed her a moment to rinse off the blade and before she ran a towel over his face. As a quick follow-up, she doused his face lightly with faint-smelling aftershave and, while his head was captive between her hands, pecked him on the lips, causing the detective to turn a fetching shade of pink. I restrained the impulse to point and laugh. It was sort of endearing that he was still so shy about their relationship, but had no problem announcing in a very clinical manner that Addie and he got it on on a regular basis. Anyway, Sherlock Holmes was finally ready for action, purple shirt and all. Addie was straightening up the lavatory as he and I headed to the living room to talk about the case.

"Addie gives a good shave. Though, I'm surprised you let her do it, at all. You're so particular."

My best mate ran his fingers over his clean features and shrugged. "I don't mind it. It gives her something to do on her day off, at least." Brushing imaginary lint off his shirt, he turned direction, "Now, about the case: how hard do you think it would be to rent a digger?"

I didn't think much of it at the moment, but I should've been weary of Sherlock's cryptic questions. Bad things happen when you trust Sherlock Holmes. Like finding an abandoned lot, digging a ditch the size of Kent and ending up from head to toe covered in mud. And not lightly sprinkled. I mean caked on, dry and crackling, can't-even-make-out-the-color-of-my-hair, covered in mud. The consulting arse, however, was impeccably clean. Because he's a berk. And I despise him. Well, no, he's my best mate, but I sort of want to strangle him. One minute he was asking me if I was uncomfortable in small, enclosed spaces, the next, he pushed me into a ten-foot ditch. The answer, by the way, was yes. A million times yes.

"Oh, come on, John, it's only a bit of dirt!" Sherlock said, as if he were trying to placate an obstinate child, the cow.

"Sherlock, I swear to God, when you get me out of here—"

He scoffed, peering over the edge as if there was nothing less intimidating than an army vet threatening to dismember you. I know that I was growling unintelligibly and jumping, try to get purchase on his body and drag him into the hell he had delivered me into. After a moment two of empty threats and the consulting bastard making witty quips about short people and ditches, he had the arm of the digger lowered so that I could climb out. The cab ride to Baker street was quiet, mostly because I was pissed, and I bolted out as soon as I could manage, leaving him to pay the ride while I awkwardly waddled up the stairs to the flat.

He paid hastily and trailed after me at once. I suppose I should feel special. "Come on, John! It was just a joke. I admit, it went a little further than expected, but—"

"That is the understatement of the year, you cock!" I tore the door open with a half growl, too angry to have any consideration of the noise or the state of the already tattered door.

"What the hell happened to you?" Addie cried, as soon as we crossed the threshold into the living room, looking up from the sofa as soon as the noise reached her ears.

"The bastard you call a boyfriend pushed me into a ditch!" I pointed with an accusatory finger in his direction, a scowl firmly planted, but barely visible, on my face.

"Lock, what the hell? That's not right." The angel of a woman led me towards the bathroom with a bundle of clothes she picked up from the coffee table. "Mary left you some clothes before she went off to Harry's. She called to say she was staying over tonight so that you and Sherlock could be bloody fools and solve crimes. Apparently, she knew the direction your case was going."

I laughed. "That is because, Adelaide, they know far more than they let on. Thank God they don't spend more time together, or they'd have overthrown the government by now. Not even Mycroft can stop the two of them."

Addie, in her very brainy-looking bun and glasses shrugged. "I have ways to deter Sherlock. You may not be so lucky with Mary."

"Why on Earth not?"

"I hardly think standing in front of Mary wearing nothing but a smile will make her lose focus on what she was supposed to do," Addie replied with a grin.

I was affronted, how dare she say I have no manner to steer my wife away from terrible choic— alright, I can't even finish that sentence without feeling like a complete idiot. I chose to focus on how easily convinced my best friend could be, if the price was right. "You're kidding!"

"Remember when Sherlock woke you up last Tuesday at two o'clock in the morning?"

I wracked my brain and a crease makes my forehead as I thought hard about it. "No."

"You're welcome." With that, she left me to my devices in the bathroom. And it took nearly forty minutes to get the clothes loose enough for me to get out of them and have a proper wash. I felt like an idiot. For your mental sanity, I will gloss over the various moments of desperation as I scrubbed clean and go straight to the part when I resurfaced triumphantly, as clean as I was going to get that evening.

"Finally! I thought I was going to have to drag you out of that shower!" Sherlock commented, bored as ever, with a black ball of fluff crawling up one arm and down the other as if he were her own, personal furniture.

I observed the movement with a scowl. "I thought animals could sense pure evil," I remarked, off-handedly, plopping down on my armchair with a sigh and a glare.

"It's a black cat, John, it's already evil. Aren't you, sweetheart?"

"Sherlock," Addie warned from the kitchen, making the smile on his face vanish in a second.

"It was a joke!" The defense was accompanied by the most pitiful looking pout in the history of … well, pouts.

"Be nice to John, you threw him into a ditch!"

"I said I was sorry!"

"Not to him!"

"Same difference!" He growled back, a little sore at being cut down.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I am warning you!"

"I am sorry I pushed you into a ditch and left you there for a while as I did other things that were far more interesting than getting you out," he ground out, staring angrily ahead of him and crossing his arms over his chest like the portrait of a petulant child.

"Thank you, Addie!" I called back and smiled ecstatically in Sherlock's direction. "You are forgiven."

We feasted on some dish that Addie made that I cannot pronounce the name of, by the life of me, and sat around the living room, sipping tea and pretending Sherlock did not look like a fool with a cat on his head. It suited him, though. An animal so fierce and independent as a cat would be the perfect companion for Sherlock. The fact that she got well with Bart was the added bonus of a lifetime. Plus, it gave Del something fluffy to play with that isn't one of Sherlock's experiments, while Bart watched her like a hawk, nearby. If I were a normal human being, I would be worried of how well my child got along with sociopathic people and animals who had not yet discovered they were not of the human variety. It seems to me the only person round here that is normal is me, and then I realize I also live with all this insane behavior around me. Then, I just weep for the future of humanity: me, Mary, Sherlock, Addie; with these examples, this girl is going to grab Britain by the balls. And not gently.

"Do you want another cup, Johnny-boy?" Addie asked me, completely ignoring the No Talking When I'm In My Mind Palace rule Sherlock so strongly enforced.

"Addie!" Speak of the devil.

"Ignore him. He just aches. Tea?" She waved him off and lifted the teapot, and I accepted the brew happily.

"Why does he ache? I was the one who fell into a ditch!"

"He won't tell me, but he's limping." As she ran to the kitchen with the now empty teapot, I settled into my armchair and stared at the dark haired menace.

"Why are you limping, Sherlock?"

Hands steepled under his chin and no apparent movement, I assumed I was on mute. I was surprised when he mumbled a harsh, "Quiet."

That was odd in and of itself. Sherlock never let anyone interrupt his Mind Palace time. Unless he was just faking it so no one would ask him any questions. It was obvious that Addie had noticed something wrong. I had not seen him limping, probably because I didn't even want to look at him since he got me out from within the earth. "If you got hurt, you should let me give you a once-over."

"Not now, John. Now, quiet!" He seethed, opening one eye to give me an evil look.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Did you get into a fight?" Addie asked, a little alarmed as she neared the sofa and pulling one of his hands towards her to inspect the bruised knuckles I had failed to notice.

"I just bruised them moving some debris," he fibbed, his right eye twitching slightly as he did. Mary gave me insider information on his tell. I love Mary.

"Lying, Sherlock." I announced happily, getting up to see the bruises.

"I am not. I hurt them moving rocks. It happens." Nervous by the people closing in on him, he fidgeted in his seat, causing Cass to look for other places in which to perch.

"Were you moving the rocks only using your knuckles? Come on, mate. Not even I'm that thick."

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" He replied, sourly.

I ignored it. "Who'd you hit?"

"The ex-husband."

I racked my brain, trying to recall the little fact he had deemed important to tell me. "I thought Doreen hadn't been married before."

"Not her ex-husband. His." He looked at me as if I were an idiot for missing that bit.

"Mr. Clarkson was gay?"

Sherlock groaned, clearly already bored with the repartee we were having. "Of course he was, John. Did you see the color of his wallet? It was obvious from the first moment we saw him."

I scoffed. "I hardly think the color of the leather or the way it was worn out tells you if he was gay or not."

"No, the fact it was bright pink and read 'Diva Forever', did." Addie giggled quietly as Sherlock produced the wallet in question from his own pocket. "Don't worry. I'll return it when I tell his wife who the killer was.

"Did you steal that from Scotland Yard?" I questioned, knowing I was going to hate the answer.

"No, I stole it off the body."

"Sherlock!" Addie scolded, although, it seemed like she knew it was a lost cause and did not do it as forcefully as she could have.

"Wait, where was I while this happened?"

"I pushed you into the ditch when I saw him coming, John. Didn't want you stealing my moment." He smiled wryly.

"You pushed me into the ditch to protect me?" I asked, as if it were an extremely foreign sensation. Sherlock saved me many times over through the years, but I had usually gotten into trouble on my own devices before he came in like a knight in… well, tin foil, most likely. He had never, not that I knew, physically pushed me out of harm's way in a battle.

"If you're going to get all weird about it, then at least let me get to the nearest toilet so I can vomit."

"Sherlock, I'm serious. That was huge. Thank you."

The man shrugged, feeling a little more than awkward and the sentiment. "I didn't want to tell Del her dad got beat up in a common street fight like a weak, sickly, child. You're welcome."

I looked up at Addie, who simply rolled her eyes and sighed before ruffling Sherlock's hair in an affectionate manner. It was just like Sherlock to rather destroy your self-confidence or put huge doubts about your intellect in the air rather than tell you that he did something out of love. With a huff, he stood from the sofa and went to fetch his violin, turning to the window to play a complicated melody instead of remaining in our presence any longer.

"He's a tosser, but he has a working conscience." Addie remarked, settling into the spot he abandoned and pulling Cass onto her lap. Bart, however, seemed to decide that his loyalty, at the moment, lay with Sherlock, and was lying down flat on his stomach right next to the detective playing at the window.

"Why is he so stubborn?"

"Why is gravity just a theory, but we still can't float off into space?" Sometimes I wondered why Sherlock was so infatuated with this girl and why she put up with him. Then she said things like this, and I remembered.

"It's dumb. Doesn't he realize that he can hold this over my head and make me miserable?"

"Yes, but he doesn't want to. You were his first friend. He'd kill an ogre with a spoon for you, then call you an imbecile."

"Sounds like him." I remarked, mouth twisted slightly. "I thought he was getting better at this sort of thing?"

"He is. John, the thing is, you put your confidence in a man who's cold, analytical and sharp, he worries, I think, that if he strays from that path that that confidence, yours and everyone else's, would be gone."

"That's mental!" I defended quickly.

"It's Sherlock," she reminded.

"Oh, right." I grinned. "Maybe one day, he'll even let me shave him," I said with faux doe-eyes and a lilting sigh.

"If you're really lucky. He'll ask you and stop asking me to do it. You'll have a lovely life. I can buy you matching, bright pink wallets."

"Ooh, too far, Addie! I was being civil!" I pretended to be extremely offended, but laughed just the same. "Wait, ask for it? This isn't just something he lets you do as a form of if I let you do this you'll leave me alone things?"

Addie scoffed, rolling her eyes. "John, I love him, but I wouldn't spend an hour and a half listening to him complain about the imaginary spot I just missed if it weren't because he specifically asked me and because his eyes sort of make me do things," she finished, with a little bit of flushed face.

I couldn't wrap my head around a Sherlock who asked for direct contact from another human being on purpose, when he had no ulterior motive to glean from it. "Why?"

"It's his way of asking for affection without sounding like a sap? He's odd? Your guess is as good as mine."

After that bombshell, i spent the night in what used to be my room, in a bed lovingly prepared by Addie. I woke because I heard the very characteristic high-pitched squeals of a small, blond girl (one who didn't dye her hair brown) and happily dressed and marched downstairs.

"Good morning, love," Mary called just as I hit the bottom step. Oh, my wife is a fox. I can admit it. A little on the insane part, but a stone cold fox. I pecked her and gave her a sleepy greeting, swallowed some of her tea before turning to the living room. The coffee table had been pushed towards one of the sofa, and Sherlock sat with Delilah on his lap, a book in his hands and Bart and Cassiopeia flanking them on either side. Apparently, Sherlock's low, drawling voice not only worked on calming down tiny children, but also the family pets.

"The little prince went away, to look again at the roses. You're not at all like my rose he said. As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You're like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made a friend, and now he's unique in all the world. And the roses were very much embarrassed.

You're beautiful, but you're empty he went on. One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you– the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she's more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is for her that I've killed the caterpillars (except the two or three we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose,**" Sherlock read to Del as she sat, stock-still in his lap, absorbed in what he was narrating.

"Why doesn't he like the other roses, Uncle Lock?" Del asked, there was a look of intent curiosity on my daughters face and as a natural response, I expected Sherlock to be horrible. However, I forgot he was fantastic with children, and he dealt with the question with surprising poise.

"He likes them just fine, but they aren't his. There are lots of mummies and daddies in the world, but what makes your Mummy and Daddy special?" He asked patiently, his chin tucked onto the small child's shoulder.

"They're mine! And I love dem!"

"That's a smart girl!" He boasted with a grin; my heart swelled with pride.

"But mummy and daddy aren't roses."

"You're right, but to him, the rose was like a person. He loved her very much. It made him better and he made her better. They took care of each other in good days and bad day."

"Mummy always says Auntie Addie makes you better. She said it made you less of a rooster," she explained happily, dragging her 'R's like small children do. Mary, having heard this, peeked out of the kitchen with a guilty grin.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "A rooster?"

"Mm-hmm. She said, with Addie around Sherlock's not such a coc—"

"And, that's enough reading time for today, don't you think? I need to have a chat with Mummy," Sherlock interrupted the girl, his eyes glued to her mother and not Addie and I laughing raucously beside her. He set her down onto the floor to entertain herself with the pets. Bart, the angel he was, was allowing her to clamber on him and pull on his ears as if he were a pony she was directing. The way he wagged his tail, let me know there was nothing wrong with the situation, and so I turned to the turmoil beside me.

"A cock, Mary, really?''

"Only when you're irritated, love," she tried to defend, but kept failing at stifling her laughter.

"You're horrible!"

"And you're a cock. We're even!" Sherlock grinned, despite himself and hugged my wife. He seemed to have a soft spot for her blunt demeanor. Actually, he seemed to have a lot of soft spots, for a lot of people.

"Oh, Mrs. Watson, you are… horrid, the term is horrid," he replied pleasantly, not before scooping up Addie in a brief hug and kissing her temple.

"Yeah, well, you're stuck with me. We're family."

"We're a little ragtag, aren't we?" I asked, looking at the four of us and then at Del and the pets.

"I didn't say functional."

** Fragment of 'The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exumpéry