Time Well Spent

or

The Hound of Baker Street

Genre: Family

Pairings: Greg and Molly, Sherlock and Sally, John and Alex mentioned

Main characters: Ensemble

Sherlock didn't wake completely just yet.

Only just enough to tighten his arm around the small daughter who was scooched up close to him. He mumbled something unintelligible to Grace, whose response was to merely clench her little fists and bury her face further into his t-shirt. Thus reassured, in his semi-conscious way, he then drifted back to sleep.

Sally, sleeping only twins' width from her husband, found herself doing the same thing, only she awoke long enough to question why her little son was so insistent.

"Can't sleep mummy," Michael mumbled. "She's too noisy."

"MMMm kay," Sally murmured, before tightening her arm around her little boy and falling back into her slumber.

When the entire Holmes family finally stirred too early the next morning, they found a soundly content and sleeping pocket beagle still snoring loudly on the foot of the bed.

"Well that explains it," Sherlock said, bleary eyed and thickly.

"Damned good thing she's cute, because she's a pain in the ass," Sally said, just before surrendering to a wide yawn. "Do you suppose Greg and Greer have breakfast going yet?" she asked.

Sherlock, now fully awake, paused. He sniffed the air, his eyebrow raised.

"Yes… I believe so. Greg is cooking bacon. Oh God bless the man. Sherla is likely watching the coffee pot, no doubt, I know he's taught her how to make it by now, what a wonderful girl, a gorgeous, clever, clever girl…"

Sherlock arose, grabbing his blue dressing gown, as Sally followed suit. Maisie, stirring from the disturbance and snorting loudly as she awoke with a start, pointed her keen hound nose into the air, and with one brief sniff, jumped down and high-tailed it downstairs to 221C.

"Yes," Sherlock said, watching the eager tail wagging in delight as it vanished down the hallway without further ado, and reflecting on the immense power of a beagle's sense of smell. "He's definitely cooking bacon."

"Do you suppose they have eggs too?" Sally asked. She was tired, but she was hungry, and she had come to know Greg as a better than average decent cook. "I was supposed to pick some up this week but I forgot."

"Greg is clever in his way," Sherlock replied. "When it comes to preparing meals he is cleverer than I could ever be," he said, not without a measure of appreciation. "Come to think of it, he is clever in many practical ways. I'm quite useless in some regards, I think," he said. Sally wrapped an arm around his waist with a smile.

"We all have our strong suits, Git," she said softly. "Cooking just isn't yours, is all. He's probably left the tea for you to make though. He usually does."

Sherlock smiled warmly at his wife. "Hmmm, indeed," he said, bending to kiss her temple. "Well I'm sure Molly ensured to pick up eggs, love. No worries." He nodded at John as his friend stumbled into the landing, pausing only long enough for Rosie to join him. Rosie yawned and took the Holmes twins by the hands, leading them blearily down the stairs.

"Wondered when your sorry arses would show up," Greg said brightly, as he saw the gang arrive. "Maisie started out in the boys' room," he said. "Then she wandered up. Guessing someone was having a late snack. Now she's sniffed out a little brekkie and come back. Hope you're all hungry?"

Sherlock thought about the toasted muffin Sally had gotten up for and sighed. Maisie may "technically" be a Holmes, but she was, realistically, a resident of the whole of 221 Baker Street, without boundaries. In typical beagle fashion, Maisie, with her hound's sense of smell that left even the average dog's nose in the dust, could sniff out a snack in epically efficient fashion.

The main door leading to the street was locked to 221 Baker Street, but once within its walls, the flat doors were ajar and a certain set of pets – namely two cats, and a juvenile pocket beagle, had the general run of the place.

Sally's belly gurgled slightly as her mouth began to water. "Maisie's not the only one sniffing out brekkie. I'm bloody starving, Greg. What can we do to help?"

Sherlock glared at his wife only long enough to appreciate that it was unwise to challenge her suggestion that they help out with the cooking when she was on the verge of being hangry. "Scrambled eggs are a delicate thing. It's all in the wrist, you see, I'm not sure I have the…" He grinned sheepishly at her look of warning just as she reached for a whisk and handed it to him. "Yes, Old Plod. I love you, have I told you that of late? Shall I whip them clockwise or counterclockwise?" He leaned down to kiss her lightly.

"Where are the sausages," a voice said from inside the fridge. "It's not proper breakfast without the sausages."

Greg glanced at John, or rather John's arse sticking out from behind the fridge door. "Second shelf, behind the apple juice," he said. "By all means, hop in, I think Molly has a spare pinny in the drawer." He fired an amused look at their doctor friend and laughed out loud as John stood up straight, displaying said pinny already tied around his compact frame.

Sherlock snorted in amusement, then said, "I'll pick up more sausages this week. I believe it's my turn next."

By then, Molly had appeared and was supervising young John and Scott in opening the tins of baked beans. The boys giggled as they turned the handle, envisioning their dad and their uncles holding their old man toots. Or NOT holding them, as the circumstances may dictate.

Mrs. Hudson, fashionably late by wisdom, arrived with a container of scones, just in time to take in the atmosphere, and the meal.

"Oh, I love this so," she gushed. "Everyone together for breakfast. It makes me feel as though I'm more than just your housekeeper."

John, Sherlock, and Greg, all fired a shocked look at her. Mrs. Hudson had expected as much, indeed had counted on it.

"You're not our housekeeper," John said flatly, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze.

"Well, that's good you've finally realized it, John. Heavens it took you longer to figure that out than for me to accept that you and Sherlock weren't a gay couple. Not that there would have been anything wrong with that, of course." Mrs. Hudson smiled serenely in gratitude as Sherlock poured her a cup of tea and quietly murmured thank you to Johnnie as he brought a plate to her at the table.

"You're not out landlady either, Hudders," Sherlock said with finality, reaching his hand to her back and giving it a quick gentle rub. This earned a look of surprise from the older woman.

"You're family," Greg said as he brought a pitcher of juice to the table. He leaned down to place a quick peck on the older woman's temple. "Baker Street's matriarch. But as such it's your turn to take that bloody beagle tonight. 221 is your house after all and you agreed to her." Mrs. Hudson feigned a stern look, while sneaking Maisie a bite of bacon under the table.

Sherlock nodded in agreement, and set his cup of coffee down just long enough to pull Greer up into his arms for a quick hug. Greer may have only been four years old, but her dad had taught her well under his close supervision. Proving that she was, indeed, her father's daughter, Greer's coffee was just as good as Greg's was, even if she did still need her daddy's help with some of it. "Excellent coffee as always, my Sherla-Girl," he whispered. Greer giggled at this, as Sherlock planted a kiss on her cheek. "One day soon, when you're bigger and have a good strong and steady hand, I shall teach you how to make a proper cup of tea."

"I'll pick up bacon this week as well," John said casually as he dished up more eggs for Rosie. "How are we for potatoes?" Greg took a quick peek around to the potato bin, replying to John only with a thumbs up.

A couple of months prior, when the gang had first gathered together spontaneously in Greg and Molly's kitchen for breakfast, Molly had looked around the table as her nearest and dearest shared the meal – and the time together. "You know, it almost seems as though we could make this a weekly Sunday morning breakfast date," Molly had commented casually, as she had helped Sherlock cut up the food on Michael and Grace's plates. "Darling, what do you think?" she asked, turning to look at Greg.

Greg seemed to think on this for only a few brief moments as he finished chewing and swallowing. "Don't see why not. I enjoy cooking like this and it's nice to have everyone together," he smiled at her. "Might be something to look forward to every week."

John grinned at this. "We might see each other more often then. For a group of people living under one roof, we don't seem to REALLY get together as often as one would think we might. I'm sure I could spare some time to contribute some breakfast baking as well, now and then. I don't think Alex would mind joining us too once in awhile, she's a ravenous appetite some mornings," he chuckled, smiling softly at the thought of his girlfriend.

Greg snorted at this as he buried his face into his coffee cup, and Molly gave him a warning look and a gentle elbow to the ribs. "No worries Love, the children are here too," he whispered with a mischievous gleam in his brown eyes.

Now, after the weekly ritual had been established, Maisie made her routine rounds at the table. The young dog, having maxed out her bacon privileges with Mrs. Hudson, had moved on to Rosie, resting her chin on the girl's lap and gazing up at her with the pleading expression that only a hound could muster.

The small beagle had no understanding of the plans that had been made to repeat each week, she only knew that her people were all gathered together, and a good number of treats were to be had. If she could have given an opinion on this, she would have been in wholehearted agreement that it was time well spent.

Author's note: Maisie's behaviour is inspired by my own 13" beagle, Molly, and as I type this, she is dead-to-the-world sleeping, and snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Ah, hounds!