In the minutes it took for Lisbeth to reenter the room, the two men sat in utter, painfully awkward, silence. John had taken to sitting on the sofa, whilst Sherlock retreated to his corner by the window, unconsciously staring out onto Baker Street, lost in his thoughts. John had taken this opportunity to stare openly at the back of the consulting detective.

Lisbeth turned the corner and entered the main room, pausing at the entranceway to admire the sight. A small smile crept onto her face. It didn't last long. Sherlock turned abruptly, causing John to jump from his position on the sofa. Lisbeth let her face drop into a scowl. She dreaded what happened next.

"I'm going out." The detective announced, his face and voice caring a monotone disposition. He swept across the floor, John's eyes never leaving him, and shrugged into his oversized coat by the door. Tying his scarf in its usual knot, he gave a small peck to his daughter's head before crossing the threshold and shutting the door to the flat behind him. They could hear his feet stomping down the steps, and finally, a bang of the downstairs front door.

John and Lisbeth had not said a word during Sherlock's exit, and stayed that way for a while, before Lisbeth sighed loudly, and made her way to the kitchen.

"Tea, John?" She called out to him, filling the kettle and flicking it on.

"That would be lovely, thanks." John replied, much to himself, as he was suddenly lost in thought. This Lisbeth girl seemed to know an awful lot about him. And now that he thought about it, had he even introduced himself to her? Maybe it was her Holmes skill of deduction. Maybe Sherlock was just chatty when it came to him. Yes, John quite liked the idea of Sherlock wanting to tell his daughter all about him. Maybe she knew about the blog, maybe she read it.

A teacup settling itself into his hands interrupted John's thoughts. He smiled and nodded in her direction, taking a sip. She knew how he liked his tea as well?

"Yes, Father informed me of you. He spent most of our visits talking about your great adventures together, and occasionally spends the hours talking about the deductions he's made. Ever one to brag he is."

She seemed to be able to read John's mind, just like Sherlock. But something tugged in John's mind, brag? Sherlock bragged about John? Or did he brag about his brilliant deductions? The latter seemed more realistic, though John would give anything for the former to be true.

"And the way I take my tea came up?" John asked, as nonchalant as possible.

She gave a smirk, "Well, no, I figured seeing as Father only takes his tea with sugar, everything else must be for you." She hummed. "He does have a sweet tooth."

Lisbeth gazed into her teacup, eyes glazed, lost in her mind kingdom. John however, wanted to reach a point of understanding. His voice broke her thoughts.

"Did-did you see him?"

She slowly raised her brow.

"After the fall I mean. Did you see him while he was dead?" John looked slightly shaken, as if he didn't want an answer at all. Maybe it was closure, closure that he wasn't the only one left behind.

Lisbeth offered a sad smile. "Alas, no. If you weren't Mycroft, father wanted nothing to do with you at the time. He was hell-bent on dismantling Moriarty's web of subordinates. If I am correct, he spoke to me only after speaking to you." She smirked. "I remember him coming home that night, distraught, telling me of how you betrayed him and got engaged to that Mary girl. How you would run off married, have a family, and forget all about your best friend. I dare say he was much too excited the day she broke it off."

John was puzzled, why was she telling him these things; these private, inter-most Sherlock thoughts? However pressing this question was, he set them aside and decided to pose another.

"You said your mother's and Sherlock's relationship was in tatters. So why did he get so emotional about her death?" That came out harsher than John anticipated.

However, Lisbeth didn't skip a beat. "My mother, Emily, was probably, no, certainly the first person Father had ever thought of as a friend. Though their friendship did not even parallel to your friendship now, it was the closest he had ever gotten to anyone. He once told me that at the time he had no idea what love is. He said he might have even confused the feeling with the need for companionship. By the time Emily was pregnant, he knew what he felt was not love. He stayed with her, yes, for my sake, but in the end I believe he had began to feel how he felt when they were friends. Emily, on the other hand, was completely head-over-heels.

"When Father began his work with Lestrade, and later his dabbles with cocaine, Emily was distraught. She feared for his safety and, in turn, the safety of our family. He came home rarely. And when he arrived, it was endless agreement until he left. He began living on his own shortly after. But to answer your question, she was Father's first friend, his first 'love', so to speak, and the women who gave him a child."

Lisbeth set her empty mug down. "John."

John raised his eyes from his lap to look at her. "Yes?"

"Father will return in 3 minutes and 42 seconds. Is that all?"

John took the opportunity to weight his options. What should he ask? His mind was so full of questions, hardly anything seemed important. Before he knew it, he was blurting out the last thing he'd ever thought he'd ask:

"How do I make Sherlock Holmes fall in love with me?"

Lisbeth smiled.

The door opened.