While I was writing this, I experienced some sort of weird temporal shift that blew my mind. I sat down to start writing at roughly 8:30. I wrote for a while and when I looked at the clock again, it was 11:00 and I hadn't even noticed. My, how time flies when you're having fun. :)

Thanks to Rainy Days-and-Daydreams and timelordsfaultedthestars for your reviews and everyone else who has been following along. :) (Rainy-Days, you give me strength, love!)

And now...the weather.

The car made its way through the crowded London thoroughfares just as the sun was sinking below the rooftops, bathing the entire façade in a delicate hue of dusty rose and gold. John looked out into the streets as they flew by and then down to the child that was currently curled up beside Sherlock in the back of the car. How things had changed in the past five hours… they'd left their flat in the pursuit of drug dealers/murderers and now they were returning without having captured either of the criminals and with one of their foster children now in their custody. And not just any child, but the youngest child and a selective mute at that. Cecil was inherently charming to the odd couple living within the walls of 221 B, but John's head was suddenly reeling with the full realisation of what they'd done.

Sherlock read his partner's mind. "Not having second thoughts, are you John?" He fixed John with a neutral gaze, but John could read the concern bristling behind those misty green eyes.

"Of course not," John answered immediately. He shook his head as if trying to dispel a fog from his brain. "No second thoughts, Sherlock. I just… just realised the full weight of what we signed on for."

"It's not like we're choosing to keep him forever," Sherlock reminded him.

"I know." John looked down at Cecil and smiled as the boy snored lightly into the silent space. "It's just… you know, kids are very delicate creatures. This is a huge responsibility, even if we only have him for a few days until Mycroft can find him a family."

"It is," Sherlock replied softly. "But children are inherently less boring than adults. It will be an interesting exploration, don't you think?"

John's eyes narrowed at Sherlock's choice of words. "Sherlock… you aren't… I mean, you didn't want Cecil just to… Sherlock…"

"Spit it out, John," the detective encouraged with a playful eye-roll.

John sighed. "You didn't want to take Cecil away so he could come and stay with us and you could…perform some kind of experiment on him, did you?" John cringed internally at how harsh and accusatory the words sounded even though he'd said them quietly and gently. Sherlock would never harm a child, but the opportunity to study one, especially a child with a condition like selective mutism? He had to know. Sherlock had once brought home a bulldog named Gladstone, which had thrilled John to no end because he adored dogs and Gladstone fit right in at Baker Street. But John had given Gladstone away after eight months and seven near-death experiences by the hand of Sherlock Holmes. The madman insisted he'd not intentionally been attempting to kill (or poison or maim) Gladstone, but keeping the poor thing was just too much of a temptation for the detective.

The look that Sherlock directed at John was not one of anger or any other sort of anger-derived glare. It was instead a look of exhaustion, weariness, and disappointment. Sherlock knew that John was asking only in the interests of protecting the boy's welfare, but it was a question that was borne out of some deeply-buried lack of trust in Sherlock's motives, and that hurt more than it fuelled rage. Sherlock could also tell that John felt guilty and looked like he had regretted asking, but that didn't really lessen the hurt.

"Of course not, John," Sherlock answered him in a low voice. "You know that I would never intentionally harm a child."

Sherlock watched John run a hand through his ashy blonde hair and sigh. "I know, Sherlock, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… accuse you of impropriety. I just had to ask. After the Gladstone incident, you know." Ah. Suddenly, Sherlock felt an odd twinge of guilt in his own brain. At some basic level, John still did not trust Sherlock's motives, which felt bad, but then as Sherlock re-examined the events of Gladstone's short-lived cohabitation with them, (and the Dartmoor sugar incident, of which he still refused to let go) he realised that he didn't give John much reason to trust him when it came to…adopting house guests. But Cecil… Cecil was a human being, and a child at that. This was different.

Sherlock reached out a hand and gently stroked the coppery curls of the child lying next to him. He could feel John watching him, so he took the opportunity to speak without facing his doctor. "This is different, John. As I said before, I do not know what exactly is drawing me to this child, but it is there all the same. I do not have children and nor do I expect that I ever will. But this is what I imagine being a father feels like… and it feels very…" Sherlock trailed off and waved his free hand about vaguely.

"Weird?" John supplied. "Good? Bad?"

"Nebulous," Sherlock said. "I feel very protective of him even though I've only known him for a few hours. I don't understand how that happens."

John flashed him a smile and a look of understanding. "I shot a man to keep you from dying after only knowing you for a few hours. I get it."

Sherlock reached across the space and took John's hand in his, squeezing it lightly. John returned the pressure with another gentle but genuine smile. As Sherlock withdrew his hand and settled back in his seat, the car pulled up outside the familiar black door of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock exhaled in relief; they were home.

John hopped out of the car, stopping only to say, "I'll go tell Mrs Hudson what we're up to and see if she won't be able to give us a hand in the next few days."

Sherlock nodded. "Sound idea, John. I'll take Cecil up to our flat." With that, John departed and went inside to find their landlady, the plastic bag holding Cecil's belongings clutched in his hands. Sherlock stepped out of the car and then reached back in to gently pick up the sleeping boy in his arms. He nodded to the driver and then carried Cecil over the threshold.

Mrs Hudson was standing in the foyer with John as Sherlock entered with Cecil cradled in his arms. The older woman beamed up at him and stepped closer to get a better view of the child. She reached up and stroked an errant curl off Cecil's face, automatically sliding into grandmother-mode. She smiled up at Sherlock.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Cecil," John answered from her right.

"He's absolutely precious, boys," Mrs Hudson breathed. "I am so proud of you for doing this." She reached up and patted Sherlock's cheek before reaching over and kissing John's. Then she backed away and made a shooing motion with her hands.

"Well, go on and get him upstairs. I'll be round in few with some dinner for us all. Poor thing looks like he's not had a proper meal in ages!" She tisked under her breath and then hurried back towards her flat, the pair of men murmuring their thanks after her. John took to the stairs and Sherlock followed, still cradling the unconscious child.

Once inside the welcoming walls of 221 B, Sherlock laid Cecil down on the sofa and covered him with the small blanket that John had retrieved from the linen closet. The pair watched him for a moment or two before smiling at each other and then moving to hang up their coats. John went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and Sherlock settled at the desk to check his email (with John's computer, of course).

"Anything of interest?" John asked as he came up behind the detective and squinted at the screen.

Sherlock scoffed. "Two emails about missing fiancées, three about lost jewellery, and one insistent ad from the London Symphony Orchestra." He wrinkled his nose. "I despise Schoenberg, John."

John chuckled. "It's a good thing we didn't get tickets then, isn't it?" At that moment, two things happened; the kettle began to whistle stridently from the kitchen and Cecil shot upright on the couch with a wordless yelp. The two men parted and took to their respective charges; John dashed into the kitchen to silence the rebellious kettle and Sherlock hurried to the boy on the couch to reassure him.

Cecil was looking around the room frantically, not recognising where he was. He remained absolutely silent but there were tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes. Sherlock seated himself on the edge of the couch, right in Cecil's line of sight, and held up his hands in a soothing gesture. Cecil's gaze latched on to the detective's figure and his shoulders slumped in recognition.

"Cecil, it's perfectly alright," Sherlock murmured. "You're okay. This is where John and I live. We brought you home with us, remember?"

Cecil nodded slowly and took several deep breaths. He sunk back into the couch cushions as he broke away from Sherlock's gaze to study the room around him. He fixated on something for a few moments with a slight frown on his face until he turned back to Sherlock and mimicked a pen. Sherlock retrieved a notebook and pencil from the desk and returned to Cecil, handing him the items. John walked back into the room with three cups of tea just as Cecil finished writing in the book.

'You have a skull,' it read.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock replied with a smirk, looking at John. John returned the smile with a chuckle.

"Yoo hoo!" Mrs Hudson's light call echoed from the landing. Cecil whipped his head to the door and inched back into the couch. Sherlock went to answer the door and John took over by Cecil's side.

'Who is that?' Cecil asked.

John read the words and then answered the boy. "Cecil, you're going to meet our landlady. Her name is Mrs Hudson and she's very nice. I think she's brought us all some supper. You don't have to talk to her, of course…but she's our friend and just wants to take care of you like we do." Cecil looked up into John's eyes, electric blue meeting pearly blue, youthful meeting experienced. Cecil found himself slowly nodding, facing the door in time to see Sherlock enter with an older woman, a tray balanced between her hands and a bright smile adorning her face.

Cecil liked her almost immediately.