Author's Note:

WARNING: slash is discussed between OC and Holmes. I am personally very anti-slash, but I believe that the real Holmes would be, too. I am only writing what I think would be IC.

Stay tuned after the chapter for two bonus features!

To my reviewers:

Brazeau: Thanks! The correlation between Holmes's return and Narnia really is the part I'm proudest of in that chapter—I'm so glad you liked it!

The Pearl Maiden: Yesss, more fluff! I likes fluff! =D Ooo, if you liked that last horse scene, you'll love this opening one! …Great, somebody who actually knows horses (BFF excluded) is reading my amateur knowledge. =P *laughs* …Understand about the name—I'll miss it, though. ;-) Hmm, if I ever get the chance I'll check that book out, thanks.

kissbee: Still wowed by your enthusiasm. =) Hey, don't apologize—I'm just glad you made it back… and I'm grateful for the fave! As far as Indiana Jones goes, well, my parents were never really into that, and though we have the first film, Mama's never let us watch it. That's not to say, however that I don't know a good deal about Raiders of the Lost Ark—thanks to Lego's franchise and my mom's willingness to volunteer details, I know quite a bit. Someday, I'd like at least to see that first movie.

Well, as far as Rathbone and Cumberbatch are concerned: I've never seen the former, and the latter is a modern-day version, so we don't really see BC perform as a traditional Holmes… (Not that I don't like him, 'cause I do.) But even if Rathbone portrayed Holmes as accurately as JB… well, there's a difference between accuracy and faithfulness. In fact, I daresay that Frank Langella was just about as good a Holmes as Jeremy Brett! And for any other Holmes actor to have done what Jeremy did—constantly consult his Complete Sherlock Holmes like a Bible, confront his producers over departures from Canon, pour his heart and soul into it even when he didn't always like it, continue filming even after collapsing during a shoot—I doubt that anyone ever has and ever will again match that kind of dedication. Jeremy Brett is forever Sherlock Holmes to me, and by extension, to Kathleen, as well (especially since she grew up with Granada).

Wow, that was long. xD Me and my essays. Anyway… Kathleen (as well as another OC of mine in different fandom) is bilingual mostly for kicks—actually to have scenarios where she says something and people are left wondering what the world she said, lol. …Me luv Father of the Bride! *grins* The Legos scene was fun, and I'm glad you liked the PB&J bit. Fanfic… yes… they're going to be learning about that. ^^ Oh, sleeping!Sherlock was one of my favorite scenes! And my own church has a Baptist name but is non-denominational for the reasons Kathleen explained. I'm glad you appreciated that!

Ha-ha, I wondered when somebody was going to mention Duran Duran! The fact is that Duran is actually a French Jewish name, and it's my grandma's maiden name—hence its usage here. =D And *facepalms* yes, the kids are homeschooled—I thought that was established already and then I find out that it wasn't! Grrr. In my own homeschool literature courses, I read several Holmes stories ("Red-Headed League" included) from grades 6-10.

Historian1912: Aww, s'okay—nice to hear from you again! *hugs* Glad you enjoyed the chapter and liked the fiction explanation!

==Chapter VIII==

Getting Their Limits

"He also loves children because I've wondered where his love is channeled. Because no one can be that unemotional. So whenever I can, I have the Irregulars around. I think Holmes loves children."

—Jeremy Brett

(Holmes)

It had been two years since I had been give occasion to ride horseback, but had it been twenty, I should not have forgotten. My old skill flooded my limbs as I mounted Hidalgo, my instinct helping me adjust to the unfamiliar Western saddle. The gelding was as fine a steed as one could wish for: strong, swift, obedient, and well-tuned to his rider, anticipating my commands as we adjusted to each other. Horses truly are sensitive and intelligent creatures, and I must admit that Hidalgo inspired me to write a monograph on the subject—for my own amusement if I could not publish it.

I found my hostess to be as skilled a rider as myself. The sight of Kathleen leaning against her Silver Blaze in full gallop was art in one of its most natural, spirited forms, so fully one with each other were horse and rider. As they halted before Hidalgo and myself, I clapped in admiration, causing Kathleen's flushed face to flush darker still.

Then it was my turn. Hidalgo and I may have possessed talent equal to our female companions, but we lacked the years of partnership. I knew our performance could not be as flawless, but when I urged Hidalgo into a gallop, it did not matter. I allowed my mind to unwind, to quiet, as I do when I immerse myself in the sweet world of music, and I felt my muscles loosen to meld with those of my mount.

It was exhilarating and calming at once. I pressed my knees tighter against Hidalgo's sides—the mark of a true horseman: staying astride by one's knees, not hands—and let the reins go slack, giving my mount his head. I threw back my own head and reveled in the sensation of speed and utter freedom. Truly magnificent.

When at last my spirit returned to earth, I pulled Hidago gently to a stop. Kathleen remained in the saddle, her face shining with admiration and appreciation. She gave a low whistle, eliciting a brief blush from me. "Wow," she said softly. "You said you were good and I didn't doubt it, but, maaan…" She laughed slightly. "That was fantastic."

I pushed a windblown strand of hair out of my eyes. "Thank you. Hidalgo is a fine steed."

"That he is." She trotted Silver Blaze over to our side and leaned over to pat Hidalgo's powerful neck. "You're a good boy, aren't you?" My mount nickered and tossed his head happily. Kathleen straightened. "What say we walk these two around for a bit, then race them?"

"Oh, that would be unfair to Hidalgo and me; you and Silver Blaze have the advantage of a long partnership."

Kathleen smiled secretively. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that—you two looked pretty good out there." She raised a challenging eyebrow at me, confound the woman. She had already learned—or already knew, thank you very much, Watson—that I could not resist a proper challenge.

Half an hour later, she and Blaze did win… but to mine and Hidalgo's credit, it was breathtakingly close.

When later Kathleen and I searched for Watson indoors, we found him on a couch in the living room, reading a storybook to little Aubrey. Kathleen and I quickly ducked out of sight so that Watson and his charge would not notice us. "Awww," my hostess whispered. "That is so cute!"

I hazarded another swift glance into the living room. "He certainly would have made a fine father," I whispered back.

Kathleen sobered. "He would have. Do you know why he and Mary never had children?"

Babies were not a subject openly discussed in Victorian times, out of propriety—but I knew because of the regular contact I had had with the Watsons. "I do. But that is a question for Watson to answer, not I."

She blushed and dropt her gaze. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to pry."

"I know." She was simply being a mother with a healthy curiosity.

After a few moments, she drew her cellphone out of her pocket and fiddled with it. "I'm going to take a picture of them," she explained, "because that is really just too cute." She leaned back into the doorway and quietly snapped off three photographs without the flash. She returned to my side and showed me the images. "Whaddaya think?"

Endearing was the word that first came to mind, and though I naturally did not say so, I believe Kathleen heard that unspoken sentiment, anyway. "Fine photographs," I replied, slightly irritated at the knowing look she gave me. Before my encounter with The Woman, I "used to make merry over the cleverness of women," and now I heartily regretted it. I almost preferred a female with less brains over a female of quick wit and sharp intuition, thanks to Kathleen Duran's deucedly annoying possession of the latter qualities.

"We'll wait," said she, "until they're done reading before we snag him for gun lessons."

I forced my tone to be light. "How fortuitous to have the remainder of the afternoon free."

She shot me a peeved look. "Oh, hush up."

I have said it before, and I will say it again: I will never understand women.

(Watson)

Kathleen rather put us to shame with her marksmanship. As she taught us to use her Glock 10mm (a sidearm), she claimed that she could fire three shots in three seconds at three feet with ninety-six percent bull's-eye accuracy. Holmes and I were duly sceptical—I myself am considered a fine shot, and even I cannot match that sort of precision.

Our hostess quickly showed us that her words were no idle boast. Her precision barely deteriorated even when she switched her gun to her left hand, and I already knew her to be extremely right-handed. She even proved herself a trick shot—again, with both hands—able to shoot coins and such. Holmes and I were obliged to eat humble pie.

The Glock was large and entirely alien in my hands, but I managed some good shots. Holmes's accuracy was not quite as good, but then, he had never taken professional training as Kathleen and I had. Even so, he once hit the bull's-eye on the target, a feat I myself came only agonisingly close to achieving.

After an hour and a half, we turned from firearms to telephones. Holmes and I learned how to operate both house and cellular phones, and Kathleen presented us each with a cellphone of our own (having somehow sneaked that purchase in the day before while shopping).

Holmes took to his phone like a child to a spectacular new toy… I take that back. He was a child with a spectacular new toy. He snapped photographs often, annoyed Kathleen and myself with the occasional text message, and frequently jumped on the Internet. I endured it with the knowledge that my friend was merely trying to keep himself busy, and Kathleen, bless the good woman's heart, had quite enough motherly intuition to understand this, as well.

We continued to watch The Chronicles of Narnia films throughout the course of the week, and Holmes and I enjoyed them all, though The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe remained my favourite. However, Prince Caspian also left a deep impression on us with the four Pevensie children returning to a world so drastically changed. It was not unlike what Holmes and I were experiencing every day, albeit with considerably less melancholia. The closing song was quite different from the music I was accustomed to, but entirely fitting.

The final lines caused my heart to ache a little:

Let your memories grow stronger and stronger

Till they're before your eyes

You'll come back when they call you

No need to say goodbye

No need to say goodbye

I think that Holmes was similarly affected.

(Kathleen)

It was two o'clock in the morning when my phone rang softly. If you've ever used an alarm, you might have once heard it on the edge of your subconscious and mistaken it as a part of whatever dream you're experiencing. That was what happened to me then, and it took several quiet rings before my mind finally realized that the sound was real, not imagined. I muttered a mild swear as I grabbed the offending object and checked the caller ID.

Then muttered wordlessly as I recognized the name. I flipped the phone open and hurried to my door to shut it so as not to disturb my guests. "Mike," I growled into the cell, "it's two o'clock in the bloody morning—" pardon the language, dear reader, but I do not appreciate being awoken at such ungodly hours—"this had better be good."

"Hey, at least you can stay home," Mike Warren snapped back, sounding only marginally less grumpy than I myself was. "It's an armchair case for you—I just need to know what you think about a shooting in a closed toy shop and blue paint."

I rubbed my temples and sank back onto my bed as he proceeded to lay out the bizarre murder for me. Normally, this sort of thing puts me in my element, just like Sherlock Holmes. Just… not at two in the morning.

My own powers of deduction were slowly roused as the rather one-sided conversation went on, but at last, I yawned and said, "Mike, hold on a minute. I'm yawning my head off here, and I'm as much in the dark as you. Can you wait while I make myself some coffee?"

A tired chuckle on the other end. "Go ahead. Call you back in ten minutes?"

"Sure."

"All right, bye."

"Bye."

I headed out to the kitchen, still clutching my cell. I stopped short, however, when I saw a faint glow spilling out of the dining room. My initial instinct was that there was an intruder (a not illogical conclusion, given my livelihood), followed up by the reasoning that a burglar would be in the living room, a criminal operative would be in the den (where sat my private computer and not a few other important items), and a kidnapper would be upstairs.

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. And, in this case, it really wasn't all that improbable.

I smiled exasperatedly. Sherlock.

I poked my head into the room and whispered, "I'm up, just so you know."

He jumped in the computer chair and whirled around, his face dark against the glow of the monitor behind him. "Kathleen!" he hissed in a whisper.

I nodded and moved noiselessly into the room. "I'm just making myself some coffee," I explained. "I got called up for an armchair case, and my brain's too foggy to work anything out."

He nodded and turned halfway back to the computer, then stopped and looked at me again as I reached the kitchen door. "You don't mind my being here at this time of night, do you?" Something about his monitor-lit expression struck me as off-kilter, but I was still too groggy to work it out.

My instinctive reaction was to say, "No, it's okay," but I stopped myself and forced my foggy brain to consider the question seriously. There was no telling how long Sherlock and John would be here, and habits were being established this first week. "If it's important, and you still get… four hours of sleep?... I guess it's okay. But hey, don't make it a regular routine, all right? Trust me when I say from experience that it's not healthy."

He cocked his head in a contemplative way and shrugged.

"I'll take that as a yes," I told him, flicking on the soft lights and making for the fridge. In this house, when we have leftover coffee, the coffee is bottled up in the fridge to be taken out at a later time and heated up in a little pot on the stove. Fortunately for me, there was some leftover coffee, so I quickly got it heating.

I turned back to the dining room and met Sherlock's eyes when he flicked a quick glance at me. "Sherlock," I murmured, "something wrong?"

He turned back to me, and I winced at the look on his face, horror and revulsion mixed together—not strongly, but enough to recognize the emotions. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" I hurried to his side.

He shook his head, and I looked up at the monitor. …And inhaled sharply before swearing once more under my breath. "Oh, Sherlock…"

"I'm sorry to have troubled—"

"Troubled nothing! I'm glad I'm up, now—I sure wouldn't want you to be dealing with this one alone!" I straightened, fully awake now. And angry.

"I… did not know what slash meant…" He clicked away from the current FFN tab to a deviantArt page, and I felt the color drain from my face.

"Oh, Sherlock!"

"I know," he moaned miserably, hiding his face in his hands. I couldn't blame him—I didn't want to see the image!

"Sherlock, how could you even see this? This ought to be a censored pi…" My eye caught the username on the corner of the page. He was logged in. "Oh, Sherlock, you didn't!" I groaned. "Tell me you didn't register on dA just to see those blocked pictures."

"I did," came the answering moan from behind those long white hands.

I quickly clicked away from the offending image of himself and John—I leave the rest of the description up to the imagination of my readers. "Oh, Sherlock…" I felt so bad for him—what a way to be introduced to homosexual pairing of himself and his best friend! "I think this is what's called 'brain scarring,'" I grimaced. "You, my friend, are in bad need of some brain bleach."

"And what the devil is brain bleach?" He finally lowered his hands.

"Eesh, it's one of those things that's easier to know than to explain." I sighed. "You think you'll be okay?"

"I've just discov—"

My phone went off at that highly inconvenient moment. "Hold that thought," I muttered, and quickly raised the blasted thing. "Mike, can I call you back in a few? Something's come up here, thanks." I shut it before Mike could even respond. Five seconds later, I received a text: Make it snappy. I fired back a retort: However long it takes, and turned back to Sherlock. "Sorry, you were saying?"

He scowled. "I've just discovered that a large portion of my 'fanbase' writes and even draws myself and my only friend as a homosexual couple! Do you really think that I'll be 'okay'?"

Ouch, that was loud-ish. I prayed fervently that God would keep John and the kids asleep—John, especially. His appearance was the last thing we needed right now.

"Look, Sherlock, I know it's a shock, and I'm sorry. I don't like it any more than you do. But that's what some people like to fantasize about, and I know from hard experience that you can't change their minds about it."

"But it's wrong!"

"So's crime, and you usually don't change people's minds about that, either!" I sighed and rubbed at my temples. "Look, just stay away from anything that says slash or Holmes-slash-Watson or Sherlock-slash-John… or anything that lists you two as the main characters, talks about your relationship in the summary, and has Romance in the genre. That ought to keep you mostly safe."

He scowled blackly at the monitor as if this whole mess were the poor machine's fault. "That's all well and good for Fan Fiction Dot Net, but what about Deviant Art?"

I shrugged helplessly. "The thumbnails—the pictures in miniature—are usually helpful. Sometimes brain-scarring, too, but you can't be quite as careful on dA as you can be on FFN. I'm sorry—there's really not much more I can say."

He shook his head. "It is not your fault, Kathleen." He steepled his fingers, and I was heartened a little by the familiar action. "Pray don't apologize for the wrongdoings of others."

"Yes, sir," I said softly. He looked up at me, and I smiled gently at him. "Why don't you go to bed, huh? I think you've had enough for tonight."

He shook his head once again. "No… I don't want to go to bed with this in my head."

"Mm, good point. Hey, have you been to YouTube yet?"

"Yes, why?"

"Why don't you look up, um…" Shoot, not the Granada series—being reminded of Jeremy Brett wouldn't help… Ohhh, inspiration! Thank goodness. "Oh, I know!" I leaned over, pulled up YouTube, and keyed a title into the search engine.

Sherlock leaned forward and squinted at the results. "Frank Langella as Sherlock Holmes?"

"Uh-huh. Ever heard of William Gillette?"

He grinned up at me. "I've met the man. I can't say that I care for his coupling me with the fictitious Miss Alice Faulkner, but he did a fine job otherwise of portraying me."

I grinned back, delighted. "Oh, wow, you'll have to tell me about that sometime!" Turning back to the screen, I explained, "This is a televised play from 1981—it's adapted somewhat from the Gillette original. How far, I don't know, 'cause I don't know all the details of Gillette's play. But I've always enjoyed it, and I think you will, too."

"Indeed?" He opened up the first video in a playlist for the show. "I shall be the judge of that. Thank you, Kathleen."

"No problem," I smiled over my shoulder, returning to the kitchen. "Just… get to bed before five, will you?" I closed the door behind me and redialed Mike's number.

(Watson)

The week moved on, and Holmes and I continued to learn about the present day. The Duran family was an indescribable blessing, a constant support in this time. They took us in as family, and even Holmes appreciated it.

He had his own moments with the children, just as I did, and I had seldom seen Sherlock Holmes more at peace. Despite his initial grumbling about "an indefinite stay in a house full of children," the man actually loved children. I had glimpsed it before in his dealings with his Baker Street Irregulars, and I saw it again now, more openly. Some have said that his three-year disappearance softened Holmes somewhat, and one could add that advancing years and several months of retirement were continuing to mellow him.

I was not sorry for the ongoing change. It was like watching a rose unfold its petals late in the year when the flowers should be fading rather than blooming. Homes truly had a great heart—not at all the brain without a heart that I had once so callously labeled him—and I was seeing it gradually revealed, bit by tiny bit, before my very eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was not the only person I was studying during this time. Certainly, I was also studying the children, but it was their mother who captured my curiosity. The one and only independent investigative consultant made for an intriguing case, herself.

To start with, Kathleen Duran was as good as her word in regards to our "intensive training." She demonstrated remarkable patience with our endless questions as well as an unflagging no-nonsense attitude. I could not help but think what a fine professional teacher she would have made.

A professional teacher, mind—she did teach her children herself. My respect for her increased exponentially, for one would think that being a single parent, running a large household and small farm of sorts, teaching several children, and supporting a family by a demanding career would run any man or woman into the ground. But the only signs of exhaustion she ever showed were the copious amounts of coffee she consumed and the way she threw herself onto the sofa (the one I observed was considered her personal property) and absolutely refused to do any work past six in the evening. She tackled her responsibilities with the kind of zealous energy I had long ago come to associate with Sherlock Holmes.

By the end of the week, I had drawn up a list of my hostess's strengths and weaknesses, just as I had done for Holmes in those early days of our relationship.

KATHLEEN DURAN—her limits.

1. Knowledge of literature.—Solid working knowledge. Has not read very many works published before the year 1800 with the exception of Shakespeare, but is by no means ignorant of older writings. Does much better with 19th century works.

2. Knowledge of Philosophy.—Amateurish. Prefers to draw her own philosophy off the Bible and her own experiences rather than classis philosophical works. Has a half-remembered knowledge of Machiavelli—has not read The Prince in many years, but recalls some disturbing bits.

3. Knowledge of Astronomy.—Average. Would like to study more in-depth, but not a high priority.

4. Knowledge of Politics.—Profound.

5. Knowledge of Botany.—Excellent. Well up in both poisons and practical gardening.

6. Knowledge of Geology.—Practical, and a hobby at times. Does not bother to memorise all soil types in New York, but does have a keen eye toward dirt samples in a case.

7. Knowledge of Chemistry.—Variable. Well up in explosive compounds. Feeble knowledge otherwise.

8. Knowledge of Anatomy.—Profound. Knows about as much as one can without earning a medical degree. Can perform and aid in battlefield surgery, but is not professionally trained.

9. Knowledge of Sensational Literature.—Feeble in general. Considering the trash written these days, I cannot blame her (and Holmes scoffs at my literary tastes!). Profound in science fiction, slightly less in fantasy.

10. Plays the piano and guitar well.

11. Excels in a variety of combat forms and weapons.—Martial arts, "street-fighting," swordplay. Markswoman with both gun and bow and arrow.

12. Has a sound practical knowledge of American law, specialising in the U.S. Constitution.

Holmes chuckled when I showed him my observations. "At it again, eh, Watson? But look here, old chap, you've missed three things at least." He scribbled onto the sheet author & reporter, experienced horsewoman, and first-class singer.

I shrugged, privately amused at his high—though not at all undeserved—estimation of Kathleen's musical talent. "I suppose I could also have put down teacher and cook."

"Mm. You might also have mentioned that she's a typist and an artist."

I raised my eyebrows. "Why typist, and… artist?"

"Quite so. She can type over a hundred words per minute—I've seen her do it. And have you never been in the den? The walls are papered with her sketches, which might have earned her a tidy living had she decided to pursue that particular talent."

"Good heavens," I laughed, "the woman's as multifaceted as you, Holmes!"

He smiled pensively. "Perhaps. But let us not forget that I am not the only multifaceted person in this partnership, my dear fellow."

I smiled back. "I could never match you there, Holmes."

"I would not be so sure, Doctor," Holmes said over his shoulder as he strode to my bedroom door. "I still do not get your limits."

Author's Note:

The list of "Kathleen's limits" was originally in the last chapter but got bumped back. That was fun doing that.

Oh, and Holmes is a softie. Sorry, but it needed to be said. ;-) Don't believe me? Just read 3GAR.

And poor Watson. I wish he could have been a father—he would have made a fine one. The mental image of him reading to little Aubrey is really just too precious.

Please review!

On FFN This Christmas Season:

"Dear Lord, You know I'm not a praying man, but I need help right now."

"Wiggins, I need you to find the Doctor."

"You see, John, you've really had a wonderful life."

"To my dear friend John Watson—the richest man in London!"

"Remember: No man is a failure who has friends."

Starring John Watson, Mary Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Inspector Lestrade in

It's a Wonderful Life, Doctor

Sneak-Preview for Future Chapters!

"Kathleen, is this…"

"Yes. Go ahead, try it out."

"Goodbye, Sherlock! …I just kissed Sherlock Holmes. Oh my word, I can't believe it. Bye!"

"And there goes a woman I don't think any man could ever understand."

"Get out the map, old boy—you're navigating."

"Get packed, guys—we're going on a little trip."

"…I think they're all here, Holmes."

"Watson, what in heaven's name are you doing?"

"It's called mowing the lawn."

"Hear ye, hear ye, this court is now in session, the right Honorable Kathleen Duran presiding."

"You act as your own bailiff?"

"Everybody else is involved in the hearing."

"The den's all filled with smoke!"

"Mama, he's having trouble breathing!"

"Six years since he died, yes."

"Kathleen, for heaven's sake, stop trying to hold it in. You're a person, not a machine."

"I really never do get your limits, my dear Watson."

"I should think you'd be used to it by now."

"Thank you for staying with me, Holmes."

"My dear fellow, why should I do any less?"

"Sometimes, I hate my job. I can't ever really get used to… to things like that."

"Perhaps it's better that you don't."

"We'd better quarantine Holmes and the little ones."

"Me, too, I think."

"Oh, that's good."

"It's a puppy."

"I can see that, Holmes."

"Kathleen, is that really you?"

"Beneath the hair dye, eye contacts, and mascara, yeah. Hi, John."

"Maybe she'll give up."

"Oh, right. Mama—our mother, Kathleen Aubrey Stewart Duran—give up when she's looking for something? Where have you been for the past twenty years?"

"That stuff's illegal and dangerous and-and… Sherlock Holmes, you are such an idiot!"

"I will thank you to keep your amateur medical opinion to yourself."

"John, he's not breathing!"

"Sherlock, which do you prefer: Ebenezer Holmes or Sherlock Scrooge?"

"We can hang the mistletoe up, but it's up to them if they follow the tradition or not."

"Someone help me with this mountain, please!"

"I hope it works."

"It works."

"Every criminal mastermind has his own style of committing a crime, just like every person has their own style of handwriting. This isn't Stirling's style."

"No! …Take… take me. Not Watson. I'll go."

"Holmes!"

"I will not be used as revenge on Kathleen."

"Oh… I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice."

"He's playing you like a finely-tuned instrument."

"If he dies, I'm holding you responsible, Tim."

"Kathleen, say hello."

"Rick."

"I'm afraid the leg is quite useless."

"Go to blazes, Rick."

"You first."

-END SPOILERS-