Chapter 3: A Place for You

'There is a place for you in my heart…damn it, why?'

Sherlock was lying on his back on his bed. Eliza had fallen asleep against him, her body curled slightly into his side, her head resting on his breastbone, small, pudgy hand clasping at his buttons. He was watching her as her breath came and went, his body warmer by the spot she breathed on. Her fiery hair was tossed about as if by wind, some on her shoulders, but most of it on her back. Some of it dared to brush against his outstretched arm.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. He should've known that allowing Eliza to rest against him would render him immobile for the rest of the night, or at least until she stirred enough that he could slide out from under her. Somewhere inside him, though, emotions twinged. Some sort of…fatherly affection? But why? It was illogical and senseless, something he thought he'd deleted once deciding he would never "fall in love" like his foolish classmates at Cambridge, obviously obsessed with procreation.

Sherlock knew he'd become much more human since living with John. He rotated his outstretched wrist and stretched his fingers to keep feeling in his arm. He knew that, because of John, he'd begun to care about others he was close to. But…a child. What made a child think she could just wriggle into his life and clamp down hard on his heart?

Eliza sighed in her sleep and clutched harder at his buttons. Sherlock felt his logical exterior melt a little bit, his interior emotions seeping out a little. She looked cute (that was the word, right?), her soft, rounded features peaceful in sleep, her fingers gripping onto him for dear life. Sherlock understood why she'd latched onto him. Unlike the police she didn't trust (he was getting to that), he understood her. He'd been able to communicate with her, to open a child who previously was closed off from the world. And he was going to teach her English. It would make finding a permanent home for her easier.

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Lonely. He'd always been lonely. But it had been his own choosing…hadn't it? He thought back, digging through stored memories, searching for a time in his life when loneliness was not what he wanted.

He could've been a kinder man, he realized. Born with a soft heart that was hardened by time, right from the start of his life. His mummy had turned to drinking because of the unplanned pregnancy of Sherlock (Mycroft was supposed to be their only son), and he'd been sorely neglected as a child. It was one reason, he theorized, why he could (John called it "starve," he called it "deny"). It was certainly the reason he was practically impenetrable emotionally, surely.

When a person with a soft heart is constantly rejected, bullied, starved of affection, they close themselves off completely, remain a child in this way, abused and hurt forever. Sherlock realized that he would always be a child in this way. His mummy had a soft heart, and had cared endlessly for Mycroft. But Mycroft was cold like his father, cunning like a snake, hateful of coddling and insensitive to the pain of others. His mummy, as we have said, ignored him. Mycroft would not be loved. So Sherlock merely adopted the general attitude of his family.

And never let anyone in.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, perhaps to bring himself back from painful memories. Maybe it was a reminder that he was not a patient in a psyche ward. Yes, that explained sufficiently why, for all his life, he'd refused to show very much emotion. It was why he repelled others. A cold demeanor. And then, along came John.

And John had cared.

John had saved his life, only hours after knowing him. John continued to get to know and understand him. And in return…Sherlock had begun to care a little.

It had begun at the famous pool scene. Sherlock was genuinely worried for John, genuinely hurt when he thought John was Moriarty. It was not just adrenaline, nor was it the thrill of the chase, the danger of the bomb. No, never. It wasn't that.

Sherlock's heart was unused. Scarred. But…open. So very much open, responsive to the right attention. Of course, in some cases, his heart closed up again. He'd innocently given to Irene Adler, closed himself to John after being taken advantage of. The used had used.

But John's reaction hurt him. And Sherlock had apologized (sort of). He'd admitted to John that he needed him, more or less. And knew he still did. Of course he did.

It was why the emotions of homesickness and loneliness followed Sherlock as faithfully as his shadow, from London, to Moscow, to Ireland, to America. Sherlock needed to feel that his wounded heart was being cared for, now that the bandage had been ripped off, the barricade blown away by one man in a wool jumper.

Sherlock inhaled a shuddering breath. Was that…a sob? He looked at Eliza, who was now sort of hugging him, her grip becoming tighter as she slept deeper. It made the pain dull, and eventually made it go away enough so he could think clearly again.

Eliza was the second woman to penetrate his barricade, tear away the bandage from his wounded heart (which, really, had never been patched up properly after his fall from St. Barts). She'd made him feel okay. Whole. At peace. At rest.

She made him feel like Sherlock Holmes the human being instead of just Sherlock Holmes the computer. The machine, which was a much harsher word for his "zone." And Sherlock the Human included that "machine," but balanced it out with the heart. It sort of gave Sherlock more meaning. Sort of. Because we can't expect Sherlock to become completely human.

Sherlock reluctantly wrapped his arm around Eliza, instinctively holding her close as she shivered. Yes, all right, a little girl had broken down his defenses. They were weak to start with. And he knew that he cared for her, past the fact she possibly held information he needed. She was not something to discard after using, like a tissue.

She was a human being. A child. To be…cared for?

Sherlock shook his head and stopped worrying about why he cared so much for this child and focused instead upon the case.

After all, there was such a thing as paying too much attention to something.

Right! Well, I got some confusion as to the…point of this story.

Umm, it's crack, it's OC in some places, it's shameless fluff. Yes, I'm aware. I got the idea from a scene in "A Study in Pink." I wanted to see how Sherlock would handle a kid. It's not logical, I know.

Also, apparently Benedict Cumberbatch is good with kids. I read a rather cute description of his interaction with Martin Freeman's kids on the set, so I naturally mixed the two together. Sherlock and children. Will wonders never cease?

Sherlock's met his match in this little girl. It's cuter than seeing him baffled by Irene Adler, don't you think?-SH