The next morning John woke precisely at 6am. It was a military habit he had yet to forget. Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, he felt oddly peaceful and content. Then he remembered the events of the night before.

John groaned. There was no way to tell if that had all been a dream or not. Sherlock kissing him- even if it was just his forehead- was unfathomable. And his singing, god, it was breathtaking. He'd give anything to hear it again.

Buzz, Buzz!

John looked over to his nightstand where his phone lay. He unlocked it, answering in a somewhat cheerful tone.

"Sarah."

"John, oh thank god, you have to come in today! It's flu season and half the on call is out sick. Please John."

John lifted a hand and rubbed his face one more time. Sighing, he agreed.

"Alright Sarah, I'll be there in an hour."

He hung up his phone, but stopped for a moment to check the date.

November 2nd 2016.

Had that all just happened in one day? Waking up at half noon, discovering Sherlock's deceased wife, adding a +1 to their home, a spectacular dinner, a song, and a kiss? He closed his eyes and listened. Faintly he heard Sherlock below him wandering about and bickering with his daughter. His daughter, the one John had no idea about until she popped into their lives. He pushed the thought aside. He would let that one go, he decided.

John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his dog tags clinking in protest to his movement. He held out a hand to stop them. Now, he thought, what to wear today?

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

John grumbled as he shoved the key into its lock, arriving home after a very long day at surgery. He was home later than usual, making a rash decision to visit the graveyard after shift.

He had walked sullenly through the headstones, a smirk rising suddenly as he passed by Sherlock's old tomb, stopping to take a few roses from his banquet and dropping them in front of the black granite. Giving the stone a loving pat, he continued down the whining path to the grave he had come to visit that day.

He stood before it, looking quite lost, if you had passed by just then and saw him. John let out a shaky breath and crouched down to wipe the muck off the stone before him. The words became clear, and John could feel tears forming in his eyes.

Harriet J. Watson

1975-2014

She had died of alcohol poisoning and left John to face the world alone, orphaned, just two years after Sherlock jumped. John tried not to think to hard on that fact. He stood up abruptly, dropping the flowers into place, deciding he'd talk to her later.

Now, heading up the seventeen steps to his flat, he could feel the doom radiating from the top of the stairs. Mycroft must be in then.

John opened the door and immediately head for the kitchen. Someone had to be nice enough to make tea. The kettle began to boil and he put three-no, four- cups on a serving platter. Examining the fridge, he was lucky enough to find milk. It was just then when he began to hear the conversation that was taking place in the living room.

"…And I don't very much appreciate you telling my 'keeper' that he's not to send any more cases my way for a week!"

"It's for the best dear brother. Besides, now you can spend some quality time with your daughter. Beth, honey, how is neuroscience treating you these days?"

John missed her answer over the sound of the shrieking kettle. He made his way into the sitting room carrying the tray of teas. He noted his surroundings. Mycroft was perched in John's chair, as per usual, with Sherlock across from him and Lisbeth on the couch. All three Holmes were looking exceedingly uncomfortable. Setting the cups on the coffee table he retreated to the couch where Lisbeth sat, bringing their tea with him. She nodded as thanks. They turned their attention back to the argument before them. John noted that Sherlock had taking to answering everything back in French.

"Le temps que je passe avec ma fille ne se préoccupe pas de la vôtre."

Mycroft made a 'tut' noise. "Everything about you is a concern of mine."

Sherlock sighed and pressed himself further into the chair. "Appelez-Lestrade, j'ai besoin d'un cas à l'instant."

"I will not call Gregory, and you will not get a case. One week Sherlock, you will survive."

"Vous plaisantez Myc, le père sera à tirer sur les murs avant la semaine est à travers. Oncle Greg n'aura pas de problème levée de l'interdiction. Vous avez eu à faire de lui convenir n'avez-vous pas? Il n'aurait jamais volontairement renoncé à son consultant. " Lisbeth supplied, but before continuing she paused a moment to consider. "On second thought, I suppose it wouldn't be a complete waste, a week off from cases, without the constant on-edge waiting for a new one to arrive. Suppose it did some good. Maybe John can get in a full week at surgery, make all that useless money." She smirked.

John decided not to comment on these events.

Mycroft smiled his diplomatic smile, and turned to Sherlock. "It's settled then, I will make sure Gregory holds a few cases for you for when you get back to him next week. Beth, it's so good to see you adjusting. If you need anything, you know who to call." He gave a nod in John's direction and took his leave.

As the door shut, Sherlock form visibly softened. Lisbeth gave a small smile in his direction. John decided to speak up.

"So, neuroscience was it?" His tone was mock serious, and soon the three were caught in a fit of giggles. They fell into a comfortable silence.

Lisbeth's phone went off, breaking that silence.

John almost started laughing again. "Is that 'Roslin and Adama' from Battlestar Galactica?"

She made a face, "Oh like you're one to talk. How you even heard your ring tone for Father?"

John paled as she answered her phone. Sherlock shot him a look.

"Daniel, this better be good, you know today's my day off… Yes, well… No, I suppose… Fine, but only Dr. Smith's lectures, I'm not covering for Brown's. Deal. See you in 15."

Lisbeth hung up her phone looking ticked. She sighed and stood quickly. Rushing over to the door she shrugged into her coat and knotted her scarf around her neck. She made her way back over to Sherlock.

"Night lectures again Lisbeth? I thought you told them to 'sod it'." He commented with a frown.

"Yes father, I know, but I owe Daniel a favour or two. I'll be home by, well, tomorrow."

She swooped in and gave him a peck on the cheek. Nodding in John's direction, she gracefully made her way out the door. After the click of the front door, an uncomfortable silence filled the flat. John wasn't sure what to do. Sherlock usually deduced him the moment he walked in the door, and he still might have, but didn't voice his findings because of Mycroft's presence. He could tell by they way the detective's eyes racked over him now that he was itching to comment. John decided to steer him in a new direction.

"Night lectures? What exactly does Lisbeth do?"

"She's a professor of neuroscience at a local university. She gives lectures about her findings and educates the occasional class of students. She's written a number of books actually." He replied, his eyes twinkling with pride. "Of course, she couldn't use her real name, her name throughout her entire life has been Amelia Ravensdale. Although, now I suppose she may go by her given name, seeing as some rather unsavoury members of the Yard have ousted her existence."

John blinked, hard. "Amelia Ravensdale? I quoted her work 'Down the Rabbit Hole; A Look into the Wanderer's Mind' as my thesis for my essay in my PhD renewal course! That was your daughter? She couldn't have been older than twelve at that time!"

Sherlock snickered. "Yes, well, she is a prodigy." He stood. "Takeaway sound good? I'll order."

Sorry about the late update. I was feeling unappreciated and unmotivated. I don't know if I even like this. But it's here now so you 14 followers out there please enjoy. Review maybe? Even if it's just to tell me I suck, I feel like no one cares. Like I'm writing to no one. Sorry for bitching, have a nice day.