Dinner that night had been a nice quiet affair, Lisbeth keeping her promise and coming home the next day looking swamped with clothes that had clearly been slept in. By that morning the papers had caught on to her existence and were swarming with headlines such as, "The Detective's Daughter" and other gems. The following case-less week had gone smoothly; John taking shifts at the surgery, Lisbeth presenting lectures to her students, and Sherlock firing shots at the wall.

Bang!

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John yelled up the steps as he was entering the flat.

"Bored." The detective replied evenly, firing two more shots at his signature smiley face.

John sighed. Sherlock was in another one of his moods, a week without cases was bad enough usually, but now full well knowing there would be no life-saving call, well, it was miserable. John had thankfully been able to take shifts at the surgery, much to the detective's dismay. With John gone in the daytime and Lisbeth gone at night, they had developed a pretty good schedule of keeping an eye on Sherlock. Today was different however, Lisbeth was needed elsewhere this morning, and Sherlock was left alone.

Resulting in shots to the yellow smiley face.

John checked his watch. It was still another four hours before the ban was lifted, and he knew for a fact Lestrade would call at six, right on the dot. Until then, John had to come up with some way to entertain Sherlock that didn't involve his browning.

Reluctantly, John asked, "How about Cluedo?"

The detective's face lit up like Christmas.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

Not thirty minutes later did Lisbeth come home to find her father and his flatmate wrestling on the floor, a mess of Cluedo pieces and cards surrounding them. She stood above their tangled form, watching, before retreating to the kitchen.

A minute later she returned, with a fire extinguisher.

"LISBETH!"

"WHAT THE-"

She smiled, tossing the now empty canister to the side. "Hullo."

They were both ridiculously covered in white foam and John couldn't help but blush at his current position, practically straddling Sherlock while pinning his arms down to his sides. Sherlock's leg, however, was bent against his chest, his foot angled in a way that it was pushed flat against John's stomach, as if ready to kick him off. Both were flushed and panting slightly, attempting to catch their breath.

Realizing where he was, John jumped up off Sherlock, awkwardly coughing. The latter stood slowly, stretching, before shaking himself off. John followed suit.

Lisbeth was smiling, rocking back and forth from her heels to the balls of her feet. Her father glanced at her before muttering,

"What are you so happy about?"

John was surprised that Sherlock simply asked instead of deducing. Or maybe he was trying to be considerate. Both options were unsettling. Lisbeth smiled wider.

"My publisher has offered me to write a tell-all book about my life as the world's greatest detective's daughter."

Sherlock raised a brow. "And?"

"And I told him to sod off and fired his ass."

Sherlock chuckled. John looked perplexed. "And this makes you happy?" he asked.

"Well, no, but that happened this morning. This afternoon, however, I received a call from the biggest publisher in London to write a series of detective novels. But that's not the best part."

"What's the best part?"

"Well, I said there was no way I could possibly write a series of detective novels without any first-hand experience, so the publisher said I could bring in a co-writer. And guess whose name I told them to write the check to?"

John couldn't believe his ears. "You're not saying…"

Lisbeth's grin split her face in two. "That right, John! I'm getting them to publish your blog!"

His jaw dropped.

"Well, with a few minor adjustments. And well I will be doing most of the actual writing. And we'll have to rename and revamp the cases. But essentially, essentially, it wills me, "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes", in the perspective of Capn. John H. Watson, MD. Your memoirs John, it will be fantastic!"

John was sputtering, words refusing to form, his eyes wide, and he was practically shaking with excitement. But before he could say anything, Sherlock butted in.

"Right that's all well and good but did you get what I asked for?"

Lisbeth rolled her eyes. "Right forgot that you wouldn't care. Yeah, the bag's on the kitchen counter. Go crazy."

He nodded in her direction and took off. She turned he attention back to John, who at this point seemed to be hyperventilating. Shaking her head she fell to her knees in front of him and took hold of his hands.

"Ok, breath John, in out, in out."

He sputtered once more before following her instructions. Once his breathing calmed, he finally spoke.

"I can't accept this, Lisbeth, it's too much, it's quite possibly the best gift I've ever received." He swallowed, "And I can't accept it,"

She began to pout. Puppy dog eyes were apparently a family trait. "John, this is big for me too. This will be my first release under my real name! It needs to be perfect."

"I just don't know."

Lisbeth sighed. "Well think about it ok? Right now we should help Father."

John raised a brow. "Why?"

There came a crash from the kitchen, followed by a muffled groan.

"Sherlock!"

He rushed over to the kitchen, only to find Sherlock laying on the floor moaning in pain, clutching his stomach. There was a small chuckle coming from behind him, and he whipped around to face Lisbeth.

"What did you give him?" John said accusingly, jumping down to check Sherlock's vitals.

She laughed harder. "He's perfectly fine, if not a small tummy-ache."

John raised his brows, eyes never leaving the form of his best friend. "Tummy-ache? What are you talking about?"

She handed him the brown paper bag of the counter. He took it, suspicious, and opened it. Inside were multiple bags of American sweets and pastries. Half of them were nearly gone. John looked back at Sherlock, now asleep, with wonder in his eyes.

"American sweets? Pastries? Where did you get this? More importantly, why did you get this?" He asked, trying hard not to laugh at the absurdity of this situation.

She shrugged. "He has a sweet tooth. Positive I've mentioned it before. Once, when he and uncle Myc were little, Nan took them to America for holiday. Father wouldn't eat any of the 'vulgar' food they served there, until one day he walked past a sweet shop. Practically fell in love, he did. Ate nothing else the whole time there. But, after they got back, he could never have the sweets again, because they only sold them in America. Now, once a year, when Nan goes back to America, she sends a parcel filled with sweets. However, she never sent them directly to father, knowing what he was like. Mycroft used to have the job of watching over it, but you can imagine how that didn't work out. Now it's my job."

John took a moment to process before answering back. "So you gave it to him all at once?"

She chuckled again. "Before, the parcel would mean that father would have to visit me more often, and thus get more sweets. But now that I live here, it would be impossible to hide them, so I decided to let him learn from his own mistakes."

Another groan came from the lifeless form of Sherlock. "No Mummy, I'll be a good boy, please don't take my candy-floss."

John and Lisbeth exchanged a look before bursting out laughing. When it finally died down, John spoke again.

"So, when will he be back to normal?"

Lisbeth shrugged again. "He should recover in an hour, then pig out again, and well maybe a few days? Just be thankful you don't have to watch him fight uncle Myc for them. That was just sad."

John smiled at the thought of the two Holmes fighting over a bag of Twinkies.

The door downstairs clicked open.

"Mycroft?" John asked Lisbeth.

"No, I believe that would be your landlady."