Chapter 2: Lunch with Eliza

The little girl was apparently easy to please. Within minutes of getting back to Sherlock's hotel room, she found where he'd thrown his scarf and began playing with it, weaving it around as she sat on the center of his bed. Sherlock opened up his laptop and began doing research, keeping an eye on the girl behind him using the oversize mirror. She seemed strangely unnerved for a girl who had most likely just lost her parents, but she seemed to be very fond of him already.

And despite his better judgment, he was fond of her as well. It made him think, again, that he'd become too human while living with John. He'd gained an ability to care for and to love other human beings. Maybe not on a sexual level, but on an emotional level, certainly. After all, he'd willingly faked his death for their safety. And he would return victorious for their continued well-being.

But about the girl. Eliza. Sherlock swiveled in his chair and watched her for a moment. It seemed she'd grown tired of playing with his scarf and had made a fort out of his pillows (somehow—there were only two pillows). The tall, thin man, who hadn't had reason for a genuine smile in a long time, couldn't resist giggling at the child's antics. Eliza looked up at him, obviously triggered by his giggles. Come play?

I have work to do.

Please? This was coupled with the sweetest pout that Sherlock had ever seen.

Not usually a fan of children, the consulting detective felt a tug at his long-dormant heartstrings. She made him feel…better. It was the same sort of calming effect lazy afternoons with John always had on him—bliss. Comfort. Peace.

Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and laid it over the back of the chair. He slipped out of his shoes and sat on the bed. How do I 'play'?

She giggled, diving at his chest, bringing him down upon the bed. Sherlock gasped in surprise, and he laughed. The little girl was straddling him, her small weight resting on his stomach. Sherlock chuckled, breathed calmly, suddenly glad he hadn't had anything to eat in quite a while. The little girl was smiling widely, her small fingers gently exploring the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock yawned, almost closing his eyes before he remembered.

Normal humans had to eat at normal times. Are you hungry?

The little girl hesitated. Yes. Do we have to stop playing?

We can play later. Sherlock nudged her off him and stood up, brushing himself off. He naerly jumped out of his skin when he felt small, delicate arms wrap around his neck, extra weight added to his back. "Carry me!" Eliza shouted in Gaelic, laughing.

Sherlock looked outside, looked at his jacket. It wasn't exactly cold out, but he knew that he got cold easily because he was underweight by about two stone. The little girl didn't have a jacket, though, so maybe they would both be okay for a few minutes. "All right," He replied, making sure his credit card said the right alias. "I will be teaching you English."

Eliza only giggled in response.

Sherlock had long ago memorized the area, so he knew of a few shops with decent coffee. American coffee tasted different than British coffee. It was sweeter somehow. He took it with milk to try and dull the flavor. The particular coffee shop used soy milk, which gave some bitterness back to the primary liquid, a fact Sherlock was happy about. The little girl tugged his shirt and pointed at a iced cookie in the display case. I want it.

You have to eat real food. After deliberating a while, Sherlock ordered a cheese sandwich for Eliza, figuring children didn't have an extensive enough palate for most things. He didn't think she was lactose intolerant, either. The cookie she wanted had chocolate in it, if not milk itself, and even a child of her age should know what they can and cannot have.

Please get it for me.

"Anything else?" The woman behind the counter asked, smiling broadly.

Sherlock ordered the cookie. The little girl jumped up and down happily.

You have to eat your lunch first.

Eliza sighed. Okay.

Sherlock collected the food (he'd already gotten his coffee) and he led Eliza over to a small table by the window. The little girl climbed into the chair across from him. Sherlock pushed the sandwich towards her and stared out into the crowd of Americans while he sipped his coffee.

"Where's yours?"

The Gaelic startled him. I don't have any.

Why?

Sherlock lifted the coffee to his lips. "This is enough."

Why?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, forgetting that this was a favorite word of children. I don't need to eat.

Mommy told me everyone needs to eat.

Sherlock thought about how he could explain this to a child. I'm special.

Special how?

Magic! He fluttered his fingers at her, smiling.

Eliza cocked her head, considering this. She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed contemplatively. It tastes funny.

It shouldn't. Sherlock worried for a moment, but he let himself think it was because he'd be losing valuable information and not because he actually cared if she died. Already, he had the route to the hospital mapped in his head.

Eliza held it out to him innocently. Try it?

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, relieved. She was a clever one. He loved clever people. She was a great mind…in a child's body. I'm not hungry.

See if it tastes funny. With your magic.

Inside his head, Sherlock groaned. Appealing to whimsy had been a mistake. But as the girl held the sandwich out closer to him and he smelled the warm, melted cheese, his will began to break a little. He hadn't eaten since he'd taken down the first string of Moriarty's web in Moscow under the name Adrian Lagounov. Well, it had been longer, now that he recalled. Probably the in-flight meal on the plane from London to Moscow. And he'd hardly eaten any of that disgusting excuse for fuel. His stomach was starting to feel deprived. I'll taste it. He relented, taking the sandwich from her. He took a small bite and chewed reluctantly.

Suddenly, his brain bloomed with deductions: cheddar cheese, sharp and gooey, crisp white bread, lightly toasted with butter, warm, tasty. Nothing out of the ordinary about it. He swallowed, a part of his brain nagging him that it never ate on a case. 'Shut up,' he thought. 'It's only one bite…'

Is it good? Eliza asked, smiling mischievously.

Sherlock chuckled silently to himself. 'I've met my match in a child. My God.' There's nothing wrong with it.

I know. That cheeky child! I asked if you liked it.

Better than the food they feed you on airplanes.

Eliza giggled and finished her sandwich, saving the cookie for later. They went back to the hotel, Eliza insisting she hold his hand all the way back.