Chapter 3

Sherlock felt cheated. He had foolishly decided to answer his friend's invitation to the park in the hope of relieving himself of the utter boredom that vexed him ever since he had solved his last case. It seemed ages ago, when in fact he had solved it only a handful of hours prior, having spent the whole night working on it. He didn't mind not sleeping. He didn't have a great need of rest. He.

John came back in the living room after having successfully put his son to bed, a smug smile on his lips. "There we go. Out like a light. He'll sleep for another hour at least!" said John proudly, sprawling on the sofa in front of Sherlock.

"You do know that at his age for every minute not spent in learning it will take hours of hard study in later years to make up for-"

"Yes, I do know it, Sherlock, because you've already told me countless times. But Sam is tired now, and quite frankly so am I, so forgive me if I don't think it a tragedy to waste 60 minutes of my son's potential mind development."

"You are right. Not a tragedy, really" said Sherlock after John's outburst. "Remorse is more like it, considering what little intellectual inheritance, genetically speaking, you have passed on to him, the fact that you also prove to be unwilling to somehow mend it will likely generate remorse in you in the future, probably leading to a difficult relationship with your son, which might result in you hitting the bottle, there's a certain propensity to do so in the family, I seem to remember, and that's genetic as well, you know…"

John was about to scream. He was unsure whether it was stronger the urge to hit Sherlock with the first available piece of pottery or the desire to inflict some pain on himself. Just what had he been thinking? How had the idea of asking his friend to keep him company while babysitting his son had ever appealed to him? Now instead of just dealing with one child he had to baby sit two Sher- two infants. And the bigger of the two could not even be put to sleep that easily. John groaned and retreated to the kitchen to make some much needed tea.

While John was contemplating whether Sherlock's trust in him was high enough to let him get away with slipping a bit of valium in his friend's cup – not much, no, really, just enough to knock him down for a while - he glimpsed a pile of mail towering on the other end of the kitchen counter. He groaned. Really, how could so much mail heap in the span of only two days was beyond him. How did Mary manage to sort it daily? With a sigh he laid down his tea on the counter, while with the other hand started to sort the mail.

Meanwhile in the living room Sherlock was beginning to climb the wall. Hi usually superior, high-functioning mind was apparently stuck on one simple concept. Bored. Bored. Bored. He felt trapped in a room that held for him no interest whatsoever. That is to say no mystery. Apart from the fact that John Watson was probably the person he knew best in the whole world, the place was so easily readable that it was disheartening. He had already deduced that the Watson's' cleaning maid was having an affair with the baker's apprentice and the lesbian couple living next door was debating whether or not to have an adoption. Then of course there was the matter of the old lady upstairs…

Sherlock sighed dejectedly. This would not do it. He needed to find something else to keep him occupied. He fished his phone from his pocket and was already texting sergeant Lestrade to see if there was any interesting case for him to solve when he heard John calling him from the kitchen.

"Uh. Sherlock? I think I have something for you to do…"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not going to change Sam's diaper, John, no matter how many times you ask."

John's face came peeping out of the door.

"That was five years ago, Sherlock! No, what I meant to say is that I found something that might interest you."

Sherlock's hand kept typing away on the phone as his throat emitted a sound that might have meant either "I'm interested, go on" or "I couldn't care less", but most likely just meant "I'm not listening anyway".

But John had been friends with Sherlock for more than 10 years now and was not that easily put off so he went on talking.

"It seems I have received mail addressed to you."

"Not likely. Almost no one writes to Mr Sigerson. Certainly not paper mail." Said Sherlock not raising his eyes from the phone screen.

"Forget Mr Sigerson. I believe this was meant for the attention of Sherlock Holmes"

Sherlock's fingers stopped their wild dance on the phone as his eyes met John's.