As usual, this chapter is based on a true story. Also, Justine's speech patterns are modelled on my granddaughter's when she was nearing age two. She is almost unbearably cute. Thanks to my beta, Wynsom, and my Brit Picker, mrspencil, for their invaluable help.

000

The taxicab made its way down Bayswater Road and came to a stop before the entrance to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.

"We're here! We're here! Let's go!" Ian exclaimed, bouncing in his seat with joy. He unbuckled his safety belt and tried to crawl over Sherlock to the door.

"Go! Go!" Justine echoed, wriggling and straining against her car seat straps and kicking her little feet with excitement.

Gladstone rose from his crouch on the floorboards and woofed.

"Stop!" Sherlock, the responsible adult, said sternly, putting Ian firmly back into his seat and hushing Gladstone with a glance. "You three know my methods. We will exit in the proper order."

In previous outings with his young charges, Sherlock had quickly learned that order and method were of paramount importance if disaster was to be avoided. He stepped from the taxi first and signalled the driver to open the boot. First he removed a knapsack and shrugged it over his shoulders. Then out came the expensive, state-of-the-art Modular Travel System's frame component with patented pivotal wheels (guaranteed to be the safest combination pushchair/car seat in existence), which he swiftly unfolded with a single, expertly efficient flick of the wrist. He quickly closed the boot and paid the cabbie. Step one successfully concluded, he thought with satisfaction.

Next, Ian was allowed to exit the vehicle. One month shy of six years of age, the boy could be trusted to stand patiently and wait- unlike his two companions, who were likely to rush off down the pavement without giving Sherlock's nerves one bit of consideration.

Gladstone came next, his lead given into his young master's care. Ian slipped his hand through the loop of the lead and then grasped hold of the handles of the pushchair with both hands. He knew the drill and obeyed like the good little soldier he was.

"Well done, "Sherlock commended them. "Just be patient; we're almost finished."

"Yen?" Justine whinged from within the taxi. "Yen? 'Stahn?"

"Me and Gladstone's right here, Jussie," Ian answered reassuringly. "We won't leave you."

"Gladstone and I are right here," Sherlock corrected him, aggrieved, and Ian chuckled.

Sherlock crawled back into the rear of the taxi and began to unbuckle the car seat component of the Modular Travel System. Great, sad brown eyes met his and nineteen-month-old Justine's plaintive voice whined, "I tan tum. I tum, too."

"Of course, you can come, too," Sherlock replied in a reasonable tone. "I'm not going to leave you in the taxi, am I?"

Justine's mood changed from utter despair to exuberance as quickly as switching on a light, giggling happily and stroking her uncle's hair with both hands. Her joy lasted until the wincing Sherlock had wrestled the heavy car seat, child still intact, out of the vehicle and then began the process of attaching it to the frame of the pushchair.

"NO!" she screeched, instantly transforming into a raging demon and furiously pulling at the seat restraints with both little hands. "Up! Up! Up!"

Sherlock sighed and checked that the Travel System was safely put together. "When we reach the Peter Pan statue, I will let you up," Sherlock reminded her patiently. "We discussed this entire plan before we left, as you might recall if you will sit quietly and think about it for a moment."

Tactics that had worked on the toddler-Ian had little or no affect on Justine Lestrade. She continued to struggle and shriek. Sherlock frowned, feeling a bit helpless. Ian Watson had been possessed of an orderly mind from the beginning. Little Justine, although just as intelligent, was apparently driven purely by emotion. Sherlock often had difficulty communicating with her, and not because of her strange speech patterns. He had soon learned her propensity for latching onto the ends of words and rarely bothering with the beginnings of them. He had also quickly understood her resistance to the sound of "K", which she consistently changed to "T". But her thought processes were often a mystery to the consulting detective.

Ian, on the other hand, understood her perfectly. "Look, Jussie," he said earnestly to his small companion. Relinquishing the pushchair handles to his uncle, he moved in front of Justine and showed her the dog lead looped around his wrist. "I have a strap, too. Straps are good. They keep us safe." He tugged his pet to stand beside him. "Look at Gladstone's harness. It's all made of straps. It keeps him safe, too. Uncle Sherlock keeps us safe so we don't be hurt. You don't have to be angry."

Justine quieted and regarded this information soberly. Then she turned her gaze to Sherlock. "Go, 'Lot! Go!" she ordered imperiously. Sherlock smiled resignedly, having been put in his place as personal slave to Justine Lestrade, and together they strolled towards the gate to the parks.

"'At?" Justine pointed. It was her favourite game.

"That is the park entrance," Sherlock replied. He approved of this game, which had increased the child's vocabulary exponentially in recent weeks.

"'Ahnss," Justine repeated. "'Ahnss, 'ahnss." She bounced happily and pointed ahead. "'At?"

"The Italian Water Gardens." As it was May and a fine spring day, the gardens were at their height of glory and there was much to see. Sherlock indicated each feature and named it for Justine. "There is the Tazza Fountain. There are statues and urns, as well. The flora include water lilies, flag irises, rushes, and loosestrife."

The child laughed at him and pointed again. "'At?"

"That is a bench."

"'Nsh, 'nsh, 'nsh."

Sherlock had learned to pick his battles. 'Park Entrance' and 'Italian Water Gardens' were obviously too difficult for a child not yet two years of age, but Justine could certainly master 'bench'.

"B-b-b-bench," he pronounced clearly.

"B-b-b-b-b. 'Nsh." Justine chortled, kicking her feet joyfully. "'At?"

"That is a rubbish bin."

"'Bish!" Justine latched onto this word gleefully. She indicated a tree and pronounced it to be "'bish", eliciting a giggle from Ian. This was an intriguing new game, and she began to point at people, plants, and other things along the path as they strolled by the Serpentine, exclaiming, "'Bish! 'Bish! 'Bish!"

Ian nearly doubled over with laughter. "Jussie says everything is rubbish! Everything is rubbish!" he roared, and Justine belly-laughed along with him. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but secretly smiled fondly at their hilarity, wondering in passing if this duo might not be giggling together at crime scenes one day.

Then Justine's expression changed. She stretched her hands towards the waterfowl which glided peacefully in the lake beyond the fence. Utterly enraptured, she gazed across the Serpentine and gushed reverently, "Duts!"

She strained against her restraints, pointing and earnestly entreating her uncle, "Duts, 'Lot! Duts! Go duts!"

"Some of them are ducks, but most are swans, Justine," he explained carefully. "Swans."

She swivelled her head around to look at him incredulously. "Duts," she explained, clearly believing he had lost his mind.

"I understand the confusion, as swans are very like ducks," Sherlock conceded. "At any rate, we cannot go closer to them, as they are all swimming in the lake. See, this barrier stops us from going near the water." He indicated the metal pipe rail fence that separated the path from the bank of the lake.

Justine was unconvinced. "Go duts, 'Lot!" she insisted. Another tantrum was brewing and Sherlock began to walk faster down the path as if he planned to outrun it.

"Come on, Jussie, we're going to see Peter Pan, remember?" Ian cajoled. "We want to play pirates, yeah? Arr, me matey! Batten down the hatches!"

Justine, her attention diverted, giggled. Disaster was once again averted.

On the greensward surrounding the Peter Pan statue, Sherlock unpacked his knapsack: an eyepatch and cutlass for Ian, a pirate's hat and short sword for Justine, and a kerchief for Gladstone completed their kit. For the next hour, all passersby were threatened and amused by the fierce pirates who were mounting an attack on the fearless Peter Pan, Wendy, and all the little forest creatures carved in stone around them.

During the battle, it became Sherlock's job to guard the gate that opened onto the path, as Justine would occasionally attempt to dart back towards the Serpentine to see the 'duts'. She was also frequently drawn to the trees that surrounded the other three sides of Peter Pan's greensward, dashing off without warning and running as fast as her little legs could go. Fortunately, Sherlock had an ally, as Gladstone had long ago taken it upon himself to guard his master's little friend. He had his own ideas about what boundaries were acceptable for her and was quite adept at cutting off the child's escape and herding her back into the area he deemed to be safe. Justine good-naturedly considered all of this a part of the game and rarely fussed about being turned aside from her goals. In fact, it seemed to Sherlock that she enjoyed being herded and often ran away with that sole purpose in mind.

The noon hour approached and Sherlock called his charges together on the far side of the sward. A picnic lunch was enjoyed and then Justine, exhausted by all her activity and made drowsy by a full stomach and the fresh air and warm sunshine, dropped off to sleep in Sherlock's arms. The detective was constantly amazed by this little bundle of energy: she would go and go and go, and then suddenly just stop, sleeping every bit as hard as she played. He carefully strapped her limp body into the pushchair, tipping it back into the reclining position, double-checked the fastenings, and left her to her kip. Then he produced a ball and a three-way game of catch ensued between him, Ian, and an ecstatic Gladstone.

Sherlock was keeping as close an eye on the napping Justine as any consulting detective could have done, he was certain. And yet, at Gladstone's sudden, sharp bark of alarm, his heart stopped as he saw that the pushchair was suddenly empty. Momentarily frozen in panic, he watched the dog race across the grass, through the gate, and across the path towards the Serpentine, following a determined toddler.

"Duts!" Justine called happily, waving to the swans. Sherlock gasped, horrified, his entire body jolted by the shock of the sight.

Heart pounding, he took off at a desperate run, watching in dismay as the child trotted directly to the metal rail fence on the edge of the lake, the dog gaining on her heels. Suddenly she dove right through the railings towards the water below.

"Justine!" He heard a terrified scream as he ran, not realizing it was his own. He knew he would be far too late.

But Gladstone's teeth closed on the hem of the little's girl's jacket just before she passed completely through the fence, and the dog braced his feet and held on. When Sherlock reached them, chest heaving, Justine was draped over the bottom rail, dangling head-down over the Serpentine, screaming in frustration.

"No, 'Stahn, no!" She struggled wildly and drummed her heels into Gladstone's chest, who bravely held on tightly.

Gasping in relief, Sherlock closed his hands around her waist and pulled her back through the railings, then wrapped her in his arms and held her close in spite of her squirming protests. His brain had turned to mush and every nerve in his body was quaking.

"Good boy, Gladstone!" he heard Ian say proudly through the inexplicable roaring in his ears. "You saved Jussie! You're a hero!" The dog woofed modestly.

"'Bish, 'Stahn!" Justine cried. "'Stahn 'bish!"

"Gladstone is not rubbish!" Ian was insulted. "He just saved your life! He's a hero!"

It seemed ages before Sherlock could get his breath back. He had rarely felt so frightened in his life and he stood openly and unashamedly cuddling the child and pondering the fact that he had never experienced true terror before Ian Watson and Justine Lestrade had entered his life.

A small crowd had gathered, uttering the expected platitudes: "She okay, mate?" and "Are you all right, sir?" and a few, "That's quite a dog you have there!" Sherlock ignored them all and walked back to where he had left the pushchair and knapsack, feeling shaky as the adrenaline surge wore off. Gradually he became aware of Justine sobbing in his ear as if her little heart would break.

"Duts, 'Lot. I go duts," she mourned and hid her sodden, snotty face in his neck and wept.

"She loves ducks," Ian offered helpfully.

Sherlock sighed.

000

"Well, you're just in time for tea," Greg greeted cheerfully them as they wearily entered the Lestrade flat. "Have fun?"

Justine jumped into her father's arms and babbled animatedly about ducks whilst Sherlock ignored his friend and put the pushchair away and Ian poured a bowl of water for Gladstone.

"I probably should have warned you about Justine's duck fetish," Greg observed as he washed Justine's sticky face. "She's liable to walk right into the lake after the damned things. Thinks she can walk on water, don't you Juss?"

"Must be rather alarming, " Sherlock said casually, busying himself with taking off his coat and removing Gladstone's harness.

Greg looked at the detective for a moment shrewdly. "Yeah, it was, wasn't it?"

Sherlock eloquently ignored him, but it was all for naught.

"Gladstone's a hero! He saved Jussie from drownding in the lake!" Ian exclaimed.

"Did he, now?" Greg turned and gave Sherlock a stern look. "Sounds like a story I really ought to hear, doesn't it?"

"She isn't wet, is she? She never made it to the water. She's fine," Sherlock snapped irritably. "And by the way, you should know that she has now learnt how to slide out of her pushchair restraints. We may have to resort to handcuffing her to ourselves whenever we take her out."

Greg put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and took a good look at him. "I think you need to sit down," he said gently. "I'll make you a cuppa to soothe your nerves."

"I don't have nerves. I'm fine. We're all fine," he grumbled. Nevertheless, Sherlock sank onto the couch. His knees were still water and he longed for a cigarette.

Justine climbed into his lap and planted a wet, open-mouthed kiss on his cheek. "Luff 'oo, 'Lot," she said, throwing her chubby arms around his neck and snuggling against him affectionately.

"So you should," he agreed sternly, but sneaked a surreptitious kiss onto the top of her head.

"'Stahn 'bish," Justine added with feeling.