This was meant to be a Remembrance Day story—I apologize for its tardiness. Real life tends to intrude itself into the writing time. My sincere thanks to mrspencil for being a patient and perfect Brit-picker and advisor and to the lovely Wynsom for beta-ing and for keeping me right.

000

The day Justine was to come home found the Lestrade flat filled to bursting with Watsons. At least, this was how the situation struck Sherlock when he arrived that afternoon, carrying a large, fragrant basket of baked goods on one arm and a humiliatingly large soft toy in the shape of a cat under the other. He was playing errand-boy this day and felt it deeply. He sighed.

Preparations for the Lestrade's homecoming were in full swing. The flat had been a disaster area: Justine's prolonged hospital stay - fighting off a bout of pneumonia in her tiny, premature lungs - had meant Greg and Molly spending every spare moment of the past two weeks by her side, only rushing home to change and grab quick, easy meals. Now John had tidied and sterilized the kitchen and was in the midst of preparing dinner; Mary had done mounds of laundry and was changing the bedding in the master bedroom; and Ian was laying the table, marching around with a fistful of cutlery and placing them with military precision by the dinner plates.

"Left forks, right knifes, left forks, right knifes," the four-year-old chanted as he marched. Sherlock noticed that Ian's mother had drawn a large, red star on the back of Ian's left hand to aid in his remembering which was which.

"Bless Mrs Hudson!" John said cheerfully as he relieved Sherlock of his basket. "I only wish she hadn't hurt her hip whilst baking these treats and could join us. And I take it this enormous cat is from you?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I should say not! It's from Mycroft," he grumbled. This was not quite true: it was, in fact, from Anthea, but she had diplomatically put her employer's name on the tag. Sadistically, John ignored Sherlock's attempt to foist the soft toy off on him, dodging back into the kitchen to unpack Mrs Hudson's gifts. Sherlock tossed the cat onto the couch, where it lay staring at him with a benign expression.

Ian, finished with his task, ran to embrace his uncle. "Here!" he cried, shoving a red poppy into Sherlock's hand. "It's 'Membrance Day! Wear it! Wear it! It's to say fanks to Dad!"

"It's to remember those who died in the service of their country in war," Sherlock corrected, affixing the poppy to his lapel.

"Dad was inna war," Ian reminded him seriously and danced into the kitchen to "help" his favorite war hero. Sherlock allowed a passing thought to horrify him of how close John had been to dying for his country, but shoved it aside in favour of being glad his friend was alive.

"Don't bother arguing with him," Mary advised, carrying an armload of towels through from the laundry room. She had two poppies in her hair. "You will never convince him that this is not about his father. In his mind, the Captain IS Her Majesty's Armed Forces and no one else need apply. He'll learn the truth soon enough."

"Because deceiving preschoolers is a charming thing to do," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. Mary chuckled fondly and stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.

"Because hero-worshipping John Watson is entirely understandable," she smiled impishly. "Lord knows, I worship him myself." She bustled cheerily on into the bedroom, humming.

"Everyone knows you worship him yourself," Sherlock replied to the space she had left behind and seated himself in an armchair, not certain what he was to do now that his part in the day's preparations was complete. Mrs Hudson had ambushed him that morning and wheedled him into helping her as a delivery boy, since she had worn herself out with baking. Then Anthea had appeared at the kerb when his cab arrived and had handed him this embarrassment of a soft toy. It was all so degrading for a famous consulting detective, reduced to a servant's status by his own family. And now that his task was accomplished, what was he meant to do with himself?

Ian walked carefully into the room, a cup of tea clutched in both hands. "Here, Uncle Sherlllock," he said. This new pronunciation of his name made the detective smile sadly. It was fascinating to observe the child grow and develop in leaps and bounds; but there came an odd catch in his throat, all the same.

"Breaks your heart, doesn't it?" John remarked as he returned from the kitchen and collapsed on the couch beside the cat. "Molly nearly burst into tears the first time he called her by her proper name instead of 'Aunt M'y'."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed unconvincingly. "His language is developing naturally. It would be worrying if it wasn't."

"Mmm-hmm," John nodded, amused, and put his feet up. Everyone (except Sherlock) had been working hard that day; everyone (except Sherlock) had, in fact, been run ragged for the past two weeks as they rallied around the Lestrades and helped as much as possible. Sherlock felt a bit at a loss—he had not been much help to anyone at all of late. He had not felt much a part of things in a quite a little while.

The fact was, he had not felt much attachment to the Lestrade child. It was not that he did not care about Justine's parents—he did, very much. But Molly was a very reserved young woman. Whilst Mary, who had not a reserved bone in her body, had deliberately involved Sherlock in every bit of her pregnancy and had even demanded his help in a number of ways, Molly had been shy about sharing aspects of her experience with anyone other than her husband and Mary. This was, of course, perfectly normal. It was Mary's behaviour that was consistently odd! But while Sherlock had already felt a part of Ian's life before he was born, Justine had never seemed fully real to him and still did not. Even now, two weeks later, there was no reason for him to feel connected with the newest member of the family. He felt no need, really, to develop a relationship with someone who did not need him.

Ian was stuffing a poppy into John's shirt pocket. "Come help me now, Dad," he demanded. "Jussie NEEDS poppies!"

"I've been on my feet all day, Ian. Let me have a bit of a breather. Uncle Sherlock can help you," John looked at his friend pleadingly.

Ian grabbed Sherlock's hand in both of his and pulled. "Come on! Come on! She be here soon!" he urged.

The detective allowed himself to be dragged into the master bedroom. Mary was in the ensuite bath, scrubbing the shower. The room was tidy and clean, the bed neatly made, and there beside the bed was a baby's cot, soft blankets folded at the foot and, floating over the head, a garish and rather macabre mobile. Sherlock had helped Ian to make this contraption from parts of a Mr Potato Head toy—eyes, noses, lips, hands, and even a tongue drifted above the little cot. Sherlock smiled.

"Jussie needs poppies," Ian explained. "She can't wear 'em—she might eat 'em! Mum say to hang them from the bomile so she can see and not touch."

"Mobile," Sherlock corrected gently.

"There's a spool of thread on the dresser you can use," Mary called in from the bath.

Ian presented a fistful of poppies for Sherlock to tie onto the "bomile". "Why so many?" Sherlock wondered.

"Mum say Jussie is a fighter. She fight the germs like a so-jer. She's reallllly little, but she's strong!" Ian explained with his four-year-old logic. Sherlock nodded understandingly. Justine the soldier, valiantly defeating pneumonia before she had even known the comforts of home! Sherlock admired the baby's spirit. He attached the poppies, directed by an earnest preschooler, and pondered the idea of welcoming another hero into the family.

"They're here!" John called, his footsteps rushing to the front door. There was a flurry of greetings and hugs and exclamations of joy over the baby's recovered health and long-awaited homecoming. Sherlock stood back a ways and watched. How easily they all did these things.

Greg, his daughter cradled against one shoulder, looked over and caught the detective's eye. "Sherlock. Would you mind? I, erm, need to take off my coat." He nodded down at the baby.

Justine was feather-light in Sherlock's arms, fragrant and soft. She looked up at him soberly with Molly's brown eyes. Strangely, against all logical possibilities, he saw aspects of Justine's entire, unlikely family in her face. There was Greg's strength and Molly's patience; Mary's courage and John's honor; even Ian's curiosity was there. And there was an innate intelligence behind the eyes that he recognized as what looked back at him from the mirror. Perhaps all children were born with these qualities innately. Perhaps these virtues only needed to be nourished and encouraged in order to be maintained. Ah! A reason to be needed.

Greg's coat was off and he reached to take his daughter back into his arms. Sherlock ignored him, ignored the smiles and knowing looks that darted between the amused members of his annoying family, and walked away into the living room holding his fascinating new niece, who had just fought the fight of a lifetime with the strength, patience, courage, and honor of a true soldier.

"Let me introduce you to this cat," he said companionably. "I believe its name is Poppy, in honor of your special day."