Hello everyone! thank you for reading, sorry about the last chapter, it wasn't good, I know. If you've managed to stick around, I applaud you! And I also thank you! Thing's have finally started to pick up, and I wrote in a little bit of angst just 'cause. Thanks again!

Chapter 2

It had been a week since the warning had been delivered, and absolutely nothing had happened. Scotland Yard had been alerted, as well as Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Surveillance had been placed on Baker Street, and Sherlock was positively seething.

"Why hasn't anything happened yet? Why?" words were flying out of his mouth rapidly as he stomped around the living room. John cooed quietly to his child, trying to keep her quiet.

"Sherlock, from where I'm standing, no news is good news."

He hadn't spoken about it, but John was positively terrified. His daughter was potentially in the line of fire, and it was all because of his connection with Sherlock Holmes. He had actually forgotten about how dangerous it could be to live with him, and now his daughter's life was potentially in great peril. How could he ever forgive himself if something happened to her?

"John, when it comes to Moriarty... Or friends of Moriarty, no news is particularly bad, in case you've forgotten".

The silence carried on for weeks after this, and the more John seemed to relax, the more Sherlock tensed up. Something was wrong, and he knew it. He had done everything he could think of to get this case under-way – tested the paint on the windows, searched high and low for traces of hair or fingerprints, but to no avail. Whoever they were dealing with was good, very good.

"Are you going to get that?"

John interjected into his thoughts, a habit that irritated Sherlock to know end. He didn't even know where John was.

"Hmm?"

"The door? It's buzzing" so? He never got the door, why would he be expected to do so now? As expected, Mrs Hudson bustled into the flat with a small package in her hand.

"Sherlock dear, this came for you", she placed the package down on John's empty chair and shuffled out of the room whilst quietly mumbling about the build up of dust within the flat. Oh do shut up... Oh. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.

"John... We've received a package at 9:30 at night"

He still wasn't entirely sure on John's whereabouts, but he never took his eyes from the clock. His mind turned over a new and different idea as each second ticked past. Everything was finally starting, it didn't take a genius to work that one out. John stepped into the living room carrying two mugs, the aroma of Earl Gray filling the air. Placing the tea down on the coffee table, John reached for the package and tenderly took it into his hands.

"Sherlock... Do we open this?"

His eyes slowly slid off the clock and down the wall; millions of ideas all racing through his mind at once. His eyes continued to trace along the floor, gradually turning to look up at the small parcel resting in John's hands.

"Give it to me."

John silently obliged, and Sherlock closely inspected it. Not stamped, hand delivered. Typical brown packing paper, addressed to Mr Sherlock Holmes; Baker Street. No unit number, no post code – most definitely hand delivered. He ran his nose along the corners of the small box. No detectible traces of gun powder, or any sort of explosive for that matter.

"The writing is male, someone who is sure of his hands. Dominant, arrogant, probably military. The writing is smudged, being pushed to the right – most definitely left handed in this case."

"Sherlock, is it safe?"

"Yes."

John watched as Sherlock slid his finger under the brown paper, opening it with extreme caution. He noted that Sherlock wasn't trusting himself entirely, even against his own deductions.

"Sherlock, before you continue, I need you to be honest with me. Does this box even have the slightest possibility of being rigged with some kind of explosive? There are some things you are going to have to tell me, I have a child living in this house! I can't put her in danger!"

Sherlock shot him a scathing look and continued to open the package.

"John, I told you it was safe! Don't doubt me", and with that, Sherlock tore off the paper and inspected the box. It was nothing special. Plain, deep brown and slightly glossed. No finger prints were visible, so the sender of the package obviously took a lot of care when preparing it. He sniffed the opening and listened intently – yes, it was most definitely safe. Upon affirmation, he opened the box – if not slower than he had intended.

John looked on as Sherlock peered inside, his heart accelerated. Sherlock, he observed, had a look of indifference on his face. It wasn't common, and usually John quite enjoyed seeing the world's only consulting detective not quite sure of what to make out in front of him. But this time? It just caused him to feel terrified.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

He didn't get a response.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock silently looked up and decided he had no choice but to confront John on this matter. He handed John the box and watched his eyes grow wide. Not good. Sherlock knew the up-and-coming game would be dangerous, he knew this would happen, he just elected not to acknowledge it.

John tipped the box's contents into his hand and stared at it, his mouth agape. He kept looking to Sherlock for answers, even though they both knew Sherlock didn't need to say a thing. But John was desperate for a different answer, desperate for an immediate solution. In his hand sat a small, pink pacifier. It appeared to be new, so it wasn't taken from the flat – but the threat was still obvious.

"Amelia..."

John dropped the box and its contents to the floor and ran from the room, returning moments later holding his child in a protective embrace; fear written across his entire face.

Sherlock picked up his phone and dialled.

"Lestrade... We've received a package, it's all starting. As much as I hate requesting the assistance of the Yard... There's been a threat. No, not to me you moron! To John's baby..."

Sherlock made a similar call to his brother, and it wasn't long until security had doubled outside of 221. Sherlock threw himself into his chair, and pressed his fingers to his lips. He watched as John paced around the room – he hadn't spoken since he saw the package, save whispering quietly into Amelia's ear. Amelia gurgled and turned in John's arms to look at Sherlock, locking onto his eyes. He felt an uncomfortable pang rise in his stomach, causing him to shift in his seat. Although surprisingly enough, he continued to hold the child's gaze.

She had the same eyes as John, but her face held the image of her mother, with a soft tuft of red hair atop her head. More than once he had noticed the affection growing for Amelia and had immediately tried to suppress it, the last thing he needed was to have to worry about a tiny, drooling human. John was supposed to do that, not him. But this was John's child, a direct product of him. Motherless, with no one but a grieving father who wasn't even able to look at her for well over a month of her new life.
Sherlock tried to think back and imagine his life without his mother, and nearly shuddered at the thought. It had hurt him enough losing her when he was 27.

Sherlock knew he had to protect Amelia, not for his sake (mostly), but for John's. He knew John couldn't handle it; he had experienced the loss of loved ones far too much over the past three years to even remotely handle the death of his child. The pang in Sherlock's stomach continued to rise, and eventually spread over his chest.
He recognised this feeling – it was guilt. He had experienced it whilst watching John try to cope with Sherlock's suicide. It was one of the worst emotions he had ever actually experienced, and hated how in every situation it arose in, he had no choice but to suffer through it.
It was his fault for playing such dangerous games, and for putting everyone around him in danger. It was his fault for enjoying it so much.
It was his fault a direct threat had been made to John's child. It was his fault if she didn't make it through to the end. It was his fault if John had to watch his baby die. It was his fault if he lost John. He wasn't even sure he could handle the loss of John. It was his fault he acted on selfish impulse alone.

It was, wasn't it?

He looked up and noticed John had been observing him, with the strangest expression played out across his face. He remembered he had made sure John had never caught him watching Amelia, for a multitude of reasons he didn't think was necessary to even think about right now. Mixed into John's fear and impending tears was the realisation (and slight amusement) of the fact that, as it turns out, Sherlock did have room in his heart for one more person.
The idea of such sentiment caused Sherlock to roll his eyes and rise from his chair, stepping towards the window.

"Nothing will happen to her."

He heard a rush of air leave John's body in relief. But only mere seconds later he heard him suck in again, with the sound of a stifled scream echoing across the flat. Sherlock spun around to find John stepping behind him, for safety of Amelia more than anything. Across the room stood a man with shaggy hair, smothering Mrs Hudson's mouth with his hand, and pointing a gun directly at Sherlock.

"Boys, pleasure to finally meet you!"

He laughed and pulled the trigger, the bullet flew past both Sherlock and John, hitting the window instead. Seconds later the building across the street exploded in a ball of flame and debris, causing the window to shatter in and shower them with glass.
Sherlock quickly guided John and Amelia to the table, shouting at him to crawl underneath. He turned around to lunge at the man, but he was already gone.
Instead he ran over to Mrs Hudson, who was crying on the floor, with the initials S.M cut into her cheek.