I'm attempting to catch up before I have to go to bed... So expect a few. December 9th's prompt, from Alice Wright - Watson's left on babysitting duty for his five-year-old cousin while his aunt sees the sights. How is he going to handle having two children, albeit one of them grown, in the same flat?

I pushed at the wardrobe door with my shoulder; feeble hope draining. It had been well over an hour now, and there had been positively no response from the outside world besides initial snickering and shuffling of feet.

The phrase "be careful what you wish for" had never before seemed so wise.

Timothy and Holmes had long since gone silent. The last thing I heard was an alarming amount of banging from upstairs.

"Blasted door," I muttered, sinking down. Whatever they had done to secure it, it had been most effective.

My head tipped back against the side of the wardrobe, I closed my eyes and let out a shallow breath. The air was beginning to grow very thin.

I was tense; my greatest was whether Timothy was well, whether Holmes was keeping some sort of a responsible watch on him.

All week I'd wished for something to distract my flatmate. He was intolerable, with the lack of productive activity. And he had nearly frightened poor Mrs. Hudson to death, shooting a hole through the door just before she opened it. I was at my wit's end. When my favourite aunt asked if I would watch Timothy for the day, I agreed readily; assuming that Holmes would be indifferent and I would have the opportunity to get to know the lad a bit better.

At first, that had been precisely the case. And then, all at once and entirely without explanation, the two became thick as thieves and plotted to contain me so that their antics could continue unhindered.

"Doctor Watson?"

Mrs. Hudson was home at last. I jumped to my feet, hitting my head on the top of the wardrobe in my haste.

"Mrs. Hudson! In here!"

Her measured footsteps approached. Furniture scraped against the floor as she slid it away; she then rapped softly on the wood. "Doctor? Whatever are you doing in there?"

"It's rather a long story, I'm afraid. I don't suppose you could get me out?" I held my breath, hopeful.

There was a long pause.

"I don't know..." The knob rattled. "Something's been done to the lock. The key won't go in."

I resigned myself with a grim nod. "Very well. Step aside, if you would."

"I... What?"

"You'll want to clear out of the way."

I heard the tapping as she moved, and squared my shoulders, hoping that since the furniture had been removed, breaking down the door would be a simpler matter.

With the last force I still possessed, I hurled myself against the door. The wood and hinges gave way with a shuddering crack, smashing to the floor and sending me spilling. I gasped for air.

"Are you quite alright?" Mrs. Hudson fluttered over me and I nodded quickly.

"Fine," I assured her, hauling myself upright. I took stock mechanically; a bleeding hand, certain bruises, perhaps a mild blow to the head. Nothing that could not wait. "I need to go find Holmes and my cousin."

"Why, they're outside. I passed them as I came in. They looked shifty, if you ask me. Now I see why." She frowned. "Really. I am sorry you were locked in, Doctor."

I flushed. "It's not a problem. As long as Timothy is unhurt."

And uncorrupted, I added mentally, hurrying to the door. Who could say what an hour of unadulterated time with Sherlock Holmes could do to an impressionable boy of five?

My shoes skidded as I dashed out onto the front steps. Ice and snow were collecting across the city, turning grey with dirt and soot. I did hope Timothy had been coaxed into a coat...

"Holmes!" I cried, catching sight of them. They were a few houses down; bent over something with great purpose.

His head flew up, panic and guilt marring his features.

"Uncle John!" Timothy scampered over, grinning openly. "You got out! Mr. Holmes said you wouldn't! I told him you were too clever. Didn't I, Mr. Holmes?"

"Indeed you did," Holmes said, a flush that was not only from the cold springing to his face. He cleared his throat. "Watson."

"Holmes." I gave him a stony look and scooped Timothy up. "Your mother should return soon. Did you have a nice time?"

"Oh, yes!" Timothy beamed. "Mr. Holmes showed me all kinds of things. Can I come back sometime? And maybe next time you and me can play too! Please?"

"I hope so," I said, ruffling his hair. He was shivering, and curled into the warmth of my arms. He was quite small for his age, I noted. A trait no doubt inherited from my aunt.

Holmes followed us inside, skulking behind. I set Timothy at the table and draped a quilt around his thin shoulders, allowing Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him and ply him with tea.

"I trust that this incident will never be repeated." My gaze was cool as I fixed it on my companion. "Ever."

He scuffed one shoe on the ground, not quite meeting my eyes. "It will not."

"Good." I relaxed, and elbowed him in the side. "We would go through wardrobes much too quickly."
Timothy chattered away to me endlessly, and Holmes joined in, snatching bits of cake from the boy's plate and begging his own cup of tea.

My tenure as a childcare professional, as I well knew, would not end when my cousin returned home.