I'M SORRY. SO SO SORRY. It's been a horrific amount of time since I updated, and I'm really sorry. I can't believe I haven't written since the seventh… Jeez, I must do better. It's been hectic at school, what with my Maths Exam on 2nd March that I really really really have to pass. Luckily, half term enables me to revise… If only I could be bothered. But it means more time to pretend to be revising whilst actually writing FanFiction! YAY! I felt guilty about the amount of time I've left the story, so I'm updating four chapters at once. Be under no pressure to review them- I get that it takes forever to get through reviewing stuff, especially with multiple chapters, so don't worry. For some reason, these chapters just don't feel right… I'm sorry if they're a bit below par. Thanks.

December 9th

1:00pm

The team had settled for a brief lunch break. Sherlock didn't eat anything, preferring to sit hunched over in a chair, scowling at the others for wasting their time. Lestrade had been too busy talking to Kayleigh Feversham about children to really get anything out of her, and John had started admiring the architecture, for God's sake. He was the only one taking this seriously.

John, Sally and Lestrade were all sat together, eating Marks and Spencer's sandwiches and chatting happily. He didn't want to be with them, but felt that somehow he should, like this was the normal thing to do. That was what he should feel. He knew that in his heart he was a drop of oil in an ocean. He would float on the surface of their world and contaminate everything that dared to stray close to him. Oil and water. Things that shouldn't meet. Like art and science. Like an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Gordon Feversham gave Sherlock a stern look upon entering the room and seeing he had his feet on the furniture. Sherlock did not move. "I'm afraid," he said with a twinge of annoyance, "that we are hosting a party tonight and will be unable to help you during this time."

"With all due respect, sir," said Lestrade politely. "This is far more important than a party. Someone's life is at stake."

"This is one of the biggest social events of the year!" Feversham gaped at them. "It's certainly the most important one of the Christmas period. The Feversham Christmas party marks the beginning of Christmas festivities." As he spoke, Sherlock could see various servants hanging Christmas decorations elaborately in the large hall. It made his and John's small strands of tinsel feel rather inadequate.

"I'm sure we can stay out of your way, Baron," said Lestrade plainly, his voice firm enough to show that he wasn't going to budge on this matter.

"But you can all come to the party!" said Kayleigh, smiling brightly at them.

"Kayleigh," Gordon said sternly. "I thought I told you, you can't just invite anyone you like to this party. It is for the social elite, I don't want-"

"A bunch of police officers spoiling the atmosphere?" said Lestrade.

Kayleigh's face had fallen. "I'm sorry, darling."

Gordon smiled smugly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a party to plan."

"Mr Feversham," said Sherlock, deliberately forgetting the 'Baron'. "I'm afraid we'll need a bit more of your time."

Gordon frowned at them as if they had asked him to spend six months in a war torn country to collect samples of a rare tree sap. He sat down in an arm chair. "Well?"

"You are undoubtedly a wealthy man. May I ask where your money comes from?"

"Family wealth," he said with a priggish smile. "But I have my own investments in various ventures."

"Such as?"

"Property mostly. New building developments in particular."

"Right. Any other important sources of income?"

"Oh, not much. I have shares in a few high status companies, several rental properties that earn me a bit- and of course I have a great deal of art work and other items that I lend to museums, for a small fee of course." His damp, oozing grin was oddly unnerving.

"Could you find these records for us? They may give us a connection to the killer."

"Of course, but it'll take a while. I don't see why this is necessary- how will you know who this man is targeting next anyway?"

"He has a certain pattern. We can't tell you too much about it."

Gordon bristled. "Well, I feel that seeing as my life was at stake, I have I right to know."

"Sorry," Sherlock said coldly, not sorry at all. Every part of his personality clashed with the man. He was the kind of person he had strived all his life to escape from. "Lestrade, I'm going to have a think. I'm going for a walk." He gave John a look, trying to express that he wanted him to come with him without explicitly saying it. Mercifully, John got what he had tried to say.

"Yeah, I'll join you. I could do with the fresh air."

2:00pm

It was cold but the sky was clear, letting icy bursts of sunshine occasionally blind Sherlock with their dazzling light. John was a few steps behind Sherlock, trying to keep up with his frantic pace.

"Slow down, Sherlock," John said hurriedly. "Walks are supposed to be at, well, walking pace."

Sherlock did not answer, preferring to lie down on the grass. It was damp from the morning's frost but he did not care. His mind was on other things.

John stopped beside him, hesitated, and then sat down next to him.

"Beautiful estate, this," John said absentmindedly.

Again, Sherlock did not answer, instead staring up at the dully empty sky.

"It must take a lot of money to keep everything in order."

"Yes," Sherlock said finally. "I imagine it does."

"I can't really see the attraction of this place myself."

Sherlock smiled at his words. "Really?"

"Yeah," John lay back on the grass. "I mean, the grounds and everything are beautiful but… it's such a cold house. There's nothing warm about it. I'd hate to be their child; it must be no fun to grow up in a house like this."

Sherlock hesitated, wondering whether to tell him what he had been about to say. He was about to change the subject, but John gave him a warm smile that seemed to melt the frozen ground beneath him.

"I grew up in a house like this."

"Oh, really?" John sounded intrigued.

"Yes. My father was an aristocrat, one of the wealthiest in Britain. He was forty when he married my mother, who was twenty three at the time."

"A big age gap then,"
"Yes, it happens in a lot of families- just look at Gordon Feversham. Kayleigh's got to be at least ten years younger than him."

"So did you like it there?"

Sherlock sent John a 'you know the answer to that already' look, and John's face fell. "Oh."

Sherlock sat up and gazed out onto the grounds of the house. He did not wish to look at John when he said this.

"My mother married out of convenience and duty, not love. She didn't even like my father; he wasn't a particularly nice person. Everything a man of social status should be, but nothing else."

"Are they still married?"

"They're both dead." The silence hung in the cold winter's air. He still avoided looking at John for fear of becoming sentimental at the caring look he was sure to be giving him.

He felt John's hand on his shoulder, and warmth spread through his body. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"I'm fine," he interrupted. "It was a long time ago." He forced a bright smile and turned back to John who, he now realised, was very close to him.

"Where did you grow up then?" Sherlock asked him.

"London. I've always lived in London- my parents like cities. We had a house in Islington. It was pretty normal. No grand country homes."

Sherlock laughed, and lay back once more. John had an uncanny ability to relax him, no matter how much a case was troubling him. John collapsed back onto the grass too, turning to talk to Sherlock properly.

"I used to think I wanted a normal life," John said with a smile. "A house, a garden, a wife," Sherlock swallowed hard at this last word, "but then I joined the army and I realised I needed adventure."

"You had a bit too much of an adventure there," Sherlock noted, glancing at the spot where he knew John's scar was.

John chuckled. "Well, yes. Though it's nothing to what we've done together. You've changed everything."

Sherlock's mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say to that? He glanced at John, who returned it. Something unreadable lay behind the tawny eyes that Sherlock sought to unravel, to no avail. There was a brief moment of silence before John spoke.

"God that sounded weird, sorry. What I mean is, my life would be so different if I hadn't met you."

"Better?"

"God, no."

Sherlock smiled. "Come on. Fancy sneaking round the house for a bit?"

John grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

3:00pm

Sherlock and John had no real idea of where they were going, but they both knew that Feversham would be enormously pissed off if he found them in his bedroom. This proved to be more of an incentive than a deterrent. Sherlock snuck into the ensuite bathroom, leaving John in the bedroom, and began to search through the drawers.

Shaving foam…Shower Gel…Toothpaste… Everything seemed in order. It was incredible how insightful looking through someone's possessions could be sometimes, but Sherlock could derive little of any interest from them in this case. He walked back into the bedroom, only to find John talking to the small boy that they had seen earlier.

"How old are you then?" he asked kindly.

"Eight. Please don't talk down to me," he said plainly, and John looked a little taken aback. His voice was child like, but his tone stern. The way he spoke was like he had heard the words before, but didn't quite understand them.

Sherlock smiled. "He's right you know John, you shouldn't treat him like he's stupid. Frasier, isn't it?"

"Yes. Who are you?" he said bluntly, folding his arms.

"I'm Sherlock, and this is John. We're here to talk to your father."

"So why are you in his bedroom?" He asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled again, intrigued by the child. "Why were you?"

Frasier rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking down. "Please don't tell," he said quietly.

"I won't if you don't, how about that?"

Frasier grinned. "Ok. Will you be my friend, Sherlock?"

It was Sherlock's turn to be shocked. "Erm, ok. Can John be your friend too?"

"Sure," he smiled at John. "Do you want to see my room?"

"Of course," said John, and they followed Frasier into a room at the end of the long hallway. It was large, and someone had painted a sky scene onto the ceiling. Large white clouds covered the room, and models of planes hung from every available spot.

"You like planes then?" said John, attempting to engage with the child. He shot him an "Isn't that obvious?' look that was reminiscent of Sherlock's own withering glares. John seemed to know this, and smirked at his flatmate. "Good God, there's two of you."

Sherlock shot him a playful frown, and sat on the small bed. "Do you mind being so far away from your parents' bedroom?"

Frasier sat next to him, holding one of his toys in his arms. "It's the only room. I did ask once if I could move into the room next door… but that's Daddy's office. And I'd make too much noise, that's what Daddy said."

John glanced at a few drawings stuck on a board nearby. "Did you draw these, Frasier?"

"Oh no!" he smiled delightedly. "Mummy drew them. Mummy is great at drawing- she painted my room." He pointed up at the sky on his ceiling. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's great."

"What's your bedroom like, John?"

John chuckled. "Not as nice as this. And not as big as his," he gestured at Sherlock, who laughed. "Because he chose the rooms."

"Oh!" Frasier looked surprised.

"What?" said Sherlock.

"Nothing…" he laughed sweetly. "I just thought that you two were…"

John and Sherlock's mouths fell open, both startled by what they thought Frasier might be implying. The kid was eight, for God's sake. "What?" Sherlock gasped.

"Well, you said that you live together. And you play together- I saw you out my window sitting on the grass. Aren't you boyfriends?"

"No!" said John, flushing a deep red. John did seem to get very flustered when people thought they were a couple, but never to this extent. Perhaps it was the shock of a child asking about his sexuality? Or, muttered a voice in the back of his head, perhaps it was that Sherlock's attraction to him was obvious even to an eight year old? "Sherlock and I are just friends. We live together. That's it- and how do you know about… that kind of thing, anyway Frasier?"

Frasier looked upset, as if he'd done something wrong. "I looked it up. Someone called me it, so I looked at a dictionary. It doesn't seem bad to me."

"Of course it's not," said Sherlock softly. "But- who called you that, Frasier?"

"Oh, just a boy," he twiddled his thumbs together, avoiding looking at Sherlock or John. "It doesn't matter. He's stupid."

This saddened Sherlock. This child's life eerily echoed his own. The father. The mother. The taunts from other children. "You're right. Because even if you were, it wouldn't be a bad thing, ok? So don't let him get to you."

Frasier began to smile. "Ok."

"How old did you say you were, Frasier?" John asked.

"Eight."

"Well you're very insightful. I feel really stupid when you and Sherlock are around."

"Don't worry, you'll learn," said Frasier smugly, and Sherlock laughed.

The door creaked open, and in came an exhausted looking Kayleigh Feversham. "Frasier, darling, I-" She spotted Sherlock and John and jumped. "God, you frightened me. How did you get up here?" She saw them exchange a guilty look. "I'm not upset!" She attempted to clarify her meaning. "I was just wondering."

"When we need to, John and I can get just about anywhere. We were just talking to Frasier about your paintings," he gestured to the sides of the room, "They're very good."

"Oh, thank you!" she smiled. "I used to paint quite a lot, but I don't any more. I still draw with Frasier though. Have you been having a nice time?"

This last question was directed at her son, and he nodded. "We were playing."

"That's good dar-" She stopped, and an idea seemed to strike her. "Oh, God, you couldn't do me a huge favour could you?"

"That depends," said John. "What is it?"

"Well, I've just had a call from the baby sitter and she won't be able to make it tonight- flu, the poor dear. I would have to stay up here all night and they were relying on me to welcome guests and organise things and God knows what else, so- and I know this is a massive pain but- could you possibly sit here with him?" She smiled earnestly, clearly a woman with too much to do in too little time.

"I don't know…" said Sherlock warily.

Frasier pulled on his jacket. "Please. I don't want to stop Mummy having fun, and I hate being on my own."

Usually, he would've refused point blank to look after another person's child, but he was having some difficulty saying no. Frasier was the first child he'd met that he could actually stand, as he didn't drool everywhere or ask stupid questions. Kayleigh seemed to be silently begging him, and he saw nothing but genuine concern for her son in her eyes. Sherlock looked at John, unsure what to do and asking him with his eyes to make the decision for him. This was a mistake- John was a sucker for kids. He yielded. "Sure," John said. "We'll have fun, won't we Frasier?"

Frasier smiled delightedly. Sherlock sighed- he should be investigating. But maybe he was being overly serious. He'd get time to probe the child about what was happening in the house.

6:00pm

When Lestrade found them, Sherlock had already inspected the entire house for anything that was out of the ordinary and sat down in an office area. This search had been unsuccessful- either the Fevershams were as respectable as they took painstaking efforts to appear, or they were very good at hiding their secrets. Sherlock suspected the latter.

"We've examined the list of business associates."

"And?"

"No links to be found yet."

Sherlock put his head in his hands and groaned. "Are you sure?"

"Well, there has to be one. We'll keep looking."

Sherlock sighed. "Give copies of the files to John and I. We're babysitting this evening, so I suspect we'll need to keep busy."

Lestrade snorted. "You? Babysit? Seriously?"

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade, whilst John failed to control his giggles. "Yes, I am capable of human compassion, thank you!"

Lestrade chuckled. "You just don't seem the type…"

"What's wrong with me? I could be friendly to children if I wanted!" he snapped angrily. John patted him on the back encouragingly, and all the blazing irritation within him seemed to subside at his touch.

Lestrade sat down in an arm chair. "So, do you think there's anything suspicious about the couple?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing strictly criminal. Morally perhaps, but nothing that would stand up in court. They will have made sure of that. I say they- there doesn't seem to be anything really wrong with Kayleigh Feversham."

"Beats me why she married him," said John sadly. "Any man would be lucky to have her- why stay with a slime ball like Gordon?"

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little jealous at John's words. "His money."

"You think she's a gold digger?" said Lestrade in disbelief.

"No. I think she came from a family that expected her to marry someone rich. That explains the estrangement in the marriage."

"What? Estrangement- how?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he half-sneered at Lestrade. "When we told her there was a threat to her husband's life, she was neither concerned nor angry. This suggests that she doesn't care for Feversham. She doesn't love him, but she doesn't hate him either, however she tensed visibly before we specified Gordon. She feared for her own life, but why? She then looked at the photo on the table of her son. Why would she do that? Because she knew that if he was left alone, he would be brought up by his father. Why would that be a problem? Because he is a cruel, heartless man who treats his son like he is a possession or a right, not a person!" It took Sherlock a while to realise he'd gradually grown louder whilst speaking, until he was nearly shouting. There was a dull silence.

Lestrade coughed. "Er, well, the guests will be arriving soon. Get up to see Frasier, will you, or I won't here the end of it from that pompous prat Feversham."