AN - Apologies for the delay. But it's a really long chapter so hopefully that makes up for it! It's also unbeta'd so apologies for any daft mistakes!

Warning: There are spoilers for the ACD story "Dancing Men". If you want to see what the code looks like then it is shown in the story.

Thank you all so much for the fab response to Paved with Love and for still favouriting/reading and reviewing :)

December 12th

It wasn't hard to ensure he returned after Ava and John had left for the day. The pair had gone off to do some Christmas shopping and all it took was a text to Mycroft's team who were spying across the road to tell him when they'd gone.

Raised by.

John was clearly mad. No-one in their right minds would allow Sherlock the chance to part raise a goldfish, let alone a small child.

What did he know about raising a child?

Mycroft was waiting for him in the living room when Sherlock walked up the stairs.

"Any particular reason you're avoiding the good doctor this morning?" Mycroft asked pouring tea.

"Do you really have nothing better to do?" Sherlock hissed, staring down at his brother and refusing to budge.

"Think of it as me making up for lost time," Mycroft said silkily, adding milk.

Sherlock eyed the windows, trying to work out how clear the securities view would have been of last night's events.

"Or I could think of it as your voyeuristic tendency raising it's ugly head." Sherlock commented sitting himself down with a challenging smirk.

Mycroft inclined his head as he raised the tea cup to his lips, "Can I assume you were enamoured enough that you forgot the security you yourself demanded?"

"No," Sherlock reached for the cup Mycroft had prepared for him, "I merely knew how empty your life is."

The tea was far too sweet for his taste but he wasn't going to pull a face and react. Mycroft had been pulling this stunt since they were children.

"Messed it up already have we?" Mycroft asked in a cutting tone. "That's quite a feat Sherlock, even for you given how Doctor Watson's been pining after you all these years."

That was irritating. Sherlock covered his reaction with another sip of the terrible tea. Mycroft had picked up on John's feelings before he had.

"What did you do?" Mycroft asked again, smug that he'd won that particular snipping match.

Sullenly Sherlock glared at the desk next to them and the papers upon it. Ava's homework; the dreaded list of spellings sat on top of his laptop.

When he looked back Mycroft seemed thoughtful. Picking at a chip on the handle Sherlock stared at the milky white liquid and wondered if Mycroft had even bothered to show the tea-bag to the water.

And damned the fact that Mycroft might be the only person who would answer Sherlock's questions without staring at him like he'd gone mad.

"Did you ever consider children?" he asked, steadfastly not looking at his brother.

"Once." Mycroft replied after the smallest hesitation.

"And?"

Mycroft let out an exasperated huff, "It surely did not escape your notice that he had a child?"

"I did not expect that he would wish to share the raising of that child." Sherlock muttered to his tea.

A quick glance at Mycroft showed the sudden intake of breath. Good, at least he hadn't been the only one caught unaware. Mycroft sat back, lost in his thoughts.

The silence stretched on.

"Clearly you have a lot to say on the subject," Sherlock said as he finished the tea.

"I can hardly pretend to be an expert in these matters." Mycroft sighed, "I am as ill equipped as you."

And that was the problem wasn't it? Sherlock thought as Mycroft stood and lifted his coat from where it had been neatly folded over the desk chair.

"Though if I may offer a thought," Mycroft said as he shrugged into the coat. "It would appear that in this matter you and I should bow to the Doctors wisdom?"

Sherlock tilted his head to glare up at the man.

"Then, as a man who is devoted to his daughter and fastidious about her safety, can we not assume that he has thought this through more than you or I ever could." Mycroft pealed on his gloves.

"That seems unlikely," Sherlock sulked.

"You never did learn how to delegate." Mycroft shook his head, "John is a parent. I am informed that most of them care who is involved in the raising of their child. Unless you think him to be an irresponsible twit who lacks both morals and intelligent reasoning."

Sherlock fixed his brother with a foul look. "Goodbye Mycroft,"

There was something wrong with the world if Mycroft could trap him into changing his mind this quickly.

Sherlock paced.

The logic was infallible, which was usually Mycroft's choice of ammunition. So neat and perfect that it left the listener with little choice but agreement. It was why Sherlock so rarely listened to the man, lest he start sounding reasonable and agreeable.

It was maddening. Infuriating. The kind of aggravating buzz that made him yearn for a case to distract him.

And, as if someone was finally listening, the phone rang.

"The wife's still in hospital." Lestrade said as they walked down to the morgue. "She's in bad shape," he shrugged it away. "The husband died from a bullet to the heart. Theory is the wife killed him and then turned the gun on herself."

Sherlock threw him a disgusted look, "She was hardly trying hard if she missed her own brain."

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah, I had realised that Sherlock." He took a deep breath, "Anyway, I've got three murders on my hands so," he waved at the door "it's all yours. No-one's looking at this too hard but you might be the only person on the planet who'll love the idea of beating the wife to explaining what happened."

It did have a certain appeal.

Alone in the blessed silence of the morgue Sherlock studied the body in front of him.

The victim hadn't been rich but he'd come from an old family that had some property. Likely it was falling into disrepair. The clothes were of good quality but not new and the watch, signet ring and wedding ring all spoke of old wealth that didn't compute with the weathered hands of a labourer, the badly cut hair and the threadbare socks that were piled next to the body.

Newly married though…perhaps just over a year…certainly just over a year. The ring was old but polished and there was genuine affection in the way that the ring had clearly been twisted about the finger; a nervous habit that likely meant the ring was an object of security and comfort. There was a receipt for a moderately expensive meal for two in his wallet, the only receipt to be found in a rather anally organised wallet that was clearly a gift from a birthday. A look at the birth date on the driving licence told Sherlock that it was too well used to be from the most recent birthday but it had been of high quality which suggested a high level of regard…a gift to a fiancée or serious partner, but not from a wife. They would have agreed on a joint present on the way couples with money problems did – an agreement on buying a new television or some practical present like that.

Which suggested a genuine marriage or partnership-

"It's a full partnership."

John's compromise echoed back to him and Sherlock felt a strange momentary sorrow that the woman in the hospital bed had lost her partner…

Then shook himself.

What was he doing?

Fuming he turned back to the pile of belongings. The coat was worn and weather beaten which told him no new information other than the man had worked outside a lot. And…

Ahh. Interesting. At last.

Tucked inside the jacket pocket were strange hastily scrawled notes comprising of symbols.

It was a cypher. And Lestrade let him take it home.

How that burned that he'd had to ask nicely rather than just walk away with it in his pocket, with Lestrade none the wiser.

"Finished yet?" John asked as Sherlock reached the top of the stairs.

Sherlock paused on the threshold, "Finished?" he asked.

"I've dated enough neurotic women to know when someone's having a panic." John turned the page of his newspaper calmly as if the situation was perfectly normal.

"I'm not neurotic," Sherlock huffed, stalking in taking the letters out of his pocket.

"And that's the adjective you choose to take issue with?" John muttered as he perused the headlines.

"You're hilarious," Sherlock glared. "Or perhaps it' your own insecurities dwelling on the idea of me as a woman."

As soon as he said it he winced and closed his eyes.

Switching between cases and home was not going to be easy.

"No, you're not panicking at all," John's voice was clipped. "Still, it did manage to interest you for almost three hours so I should be flattered."

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock muttered, "I…I thought about you on a case."

There was a pause and then John finally put the paper down and turned. With a sigh he stood and walked over.

"You thought about me on a case?" he asked standing at the head of the table.

""Yes," Sherlock replied annoyed.

A slow smile crept into John's eyes and tugged at the corners of his lips. "Why did you panic?" he asked softly.

Sherlock shot John a look, "You didn't work it out?"

"That was always my problem." John seemed amused. "I could never figure the lunatics' reasons out."

Unsure whether to take offence at being lumped in with the dull women John had dated or to preen at how easily he seemed to have dissuaded John from frankly moronic idea that he'd changed his mind, Sherlock settled on ignoring both and opened the envelopes.

"You mentioned raising Ava together." Sherlock said as he removed the letters to study the cypher.

"You do realise that's a very typical reaction for someone dating a single parent?" John asked silkily.

Typical was simply a synonym for ordinary. Pausing in what he was doing Sherlock glared at John.

"Yes, you've made your point," he snapped.

John grinned and stepped forward the shy look appearing again. Then he seemed to think better of what he'd been about to do and moved towards the kettle.

Despite himself Sherlock smiled down at the cyphers.

"So what are they?" John asked, sitting across from him and offering up a cup of tea to Sherlock. "Or have you suddenly become a fan of stick figure art? Cause Ava's artistic ability just about stretches to stick figures and she'll be thrilled."

Amused Sherlock swung one of the letters around so it faced John. "What do you see?"

The flare of interest and spark of challenge in John's eye made Sherlock's gut twist with glee.

John cleared his throat, "Symbols." He said finally. "They're repeated?"

Sherlock let nothing show on his face, even when John looked even more interested as his eyes flickered over the letters.

"Hint?" Sherlock asked.

"You never give hints," John stared up at him with a crooked smile.

"Not to just friends, no."

The smile turned sweet and John shifted, "I…ok."

Sherlock pulled back, determined to be business like about it all. "The case at the bank, when we were first living together."

"The case of the blind banker?"

He'd tried to forget some of the hideous names John had created for the cases. "Yes," he replied allowing his distaste to show.

"What…It's a cypher," John answered without hesitancy.

Sherlock smirked and twisted the letters back.

"So how do you figure out the code?" John asked.

"By thinking."

John let out a long breath, "I'm going for a walk."

"What, why?" Sherlock asked snapping his head up.

"Because, as thrilling as you may think it is to watch you sit in silence and then snark and snarl when anyone makes the smallest bit of noise, I have things to do. And a daughter to pick up and distract since I'm sure she'll drive you insane whilst you're doing this."

"I can handle-"

"Daddy, why were you and Sherlock snogging last night? Daddy why don't you two cuddle on the sofa like they do in films? Daddy, are you and Sherlock going to get married? Daddy are you two going to make silly noises in bed like Tommy's mum does when his Uncle comes round?" John asked in a mokcing tone.

Sherlock felt his mouth drop slightly.

John waited.

"Fair enough," Sherlock said, ducking his head back to the code. "How long before the questions go away?"

"Well usually I'd say a day but some clever sod told her that it's good to ask questions." John looked utterly triumphant as he stood opposite Sherlock.

"Distract her," Sherlock suggested.

"With?"

"Small fluffy animals?" They always seemed to be doing that on the ridiculous BBC channel she watched.

"You want me to get her a pet."

"No," God no.

"Want me to pick up dinner?"

Nodding Sherlock scanned the letters. Logic would dictate that the most frequent character be an "e"…

Warm hands gripped his chin and then wet lips that tasted of tea…he'd forgotten the cup that John had given him…pressed against his.

It was soothing. Relaxing and he could feel the tension ebb from his shoulders as if John was pulling out the effects from a morning of worrying thoughts.

John pulled away, scanned his face, nodded to himself and picked up his jacket while Sherlock stood blinking at the letters.

"Any reason for that?" he asked, surprised at the gruffness of his voice.

John grinned as he picked up his keys, "I'm pretty sure I don't need one," he winked and then disappeared round the corner and down the stairs.

There was something very good about that, Sherlock decided. Even if he had forgotten to pull the curtains again.

The code, once broken (two and a half hours, thank you very much), revealed persuasive messages which dulled the case a little. The husband had clearly copied them off of a series of texts messages, going from the numbers under each message and the content suggested a former lover who felt wronged by the recent marriages and cheated in some-way.

It was only the last and most recent note (newer ink, fresher paper, less smudges that often indicated re-reading meant he didn't even have to glance at the date numbers) that the threat appeared.

Prepare to meet God.

And there was a useful one for Lestrade in one of the earlier messages.

Am here Abe Slaney.

How kind of the murderer to sign his name.

"Just send it," Sherlock huffed at Lestrade as the inspector held the wife's phone hesitantly. "Copy what I have drawn and send it."

Lestrade kept glancing between the message that Sherlock had drawn and Sherlock himself.

Huffing Sherlock flung himself into the chair, "I have explained it, I have proved it by showing you the symbols on the wife's phone that she once used. I have written it up. Just send the damned thing."

"Sherlock-"

"Once he turns up you'll be able to search his phone. You'll see the symbols on the phone that he can use to text with."

"Sherlock-"

"What?"

"The name hasn't rung any bells?" Lestrade asked, leaning against the desk.

"Name?"

"Abe Slaney?"

Abe Slaney. Sherlock scanned his mind palace.

Chicago

Gang

Wanted

"Well isn't it your lucky day inspector?" Sherlock huffed, "Though I imagine he will try to crawl his way out of it."

"Probably," Lestrade agreed, staring at the symbols.

"Do you want to know how to make sure he won't manage it?" When Lestrade looked up Sherlock glared, "Text him so I can get home for dinner."

Lestrade finally did as he was told, though the suspicious look that was thrown at Sherlock made him a little uneasy.

"Did you solve a case?" Ava asked as he walked into the kitchen.

"Silly question," John teased as he cut up her meat. "Sherlock would still be running around London if he hadn't. Yours is in the oven," he said absently.

Sherlock eyed the oven with distrust. "It works?" he asked.

"Well, we're about to find out," John said returning the knife and fork to Ava. "Make sure you eat some carrots too," he scolded her.

"Do carrots really help you to see in the dark?" Ava asked.

"No," Sherlock said at the same time that John said "Yes,"

Sherlock busied himself getting his plate out of the oven. "But they taste better than most vegetables." He added, "So if you have to eat any, it may as well be carrots."

Bizarrely she seemed satisfied by that and continued to eat.

"You gave your notes to Lestrade?" John asked watching as Sherlock sat down.

"Yes."

"And he read it all without yawning?"

Narrowing his eyes Sherlock toyed with the food in front of him, "Just because you chose to make everything into a flight of fancy does not mean everyone else dislikes accurate and useful detail."

John nudged Ava, "He's calling me a bad storyteller." He said, in the kind of voice the dog owners used to say "sic'em."

Ava glared. "Daddy does the best voices in the whole world" she said forcefully, lifting her chin. "And everyone at school's jealous of his stories."

John munched on his food with an evil smile and a challenging raise of his eyebrows. Ava just scowled.

"Well played."

John was uncomfortable about something. His posture screamed it as his eyes darted up and then back at the television again. Even from Sherlock's position at the table he could see that from the way his head tilted and the twitches of his ears.

Ears. He hadn't had nearly enough time to study the reactions John had. There had been some sensitivity there, but it seemed to be more Sherlock's voice that had unravelled the man. That was good – far easier to tease with a voice than with an ear.

If John would relax and stop looking at the ceiling every five minutes as if there was a bomb about to go off.

It wasn't Sherlock's presence that was making John anxious. The glances were in the wrong direction. It wasn't Ava either, who had been sent to bed nearly an hour and a half ago; John would be glancing at the stairs if that was the case and he was in a good position to do so.

An object then? For a terrible moment Sherlock considered that it might be some romantic gesture and then dismissed the thought: John was far too practical and knew Sherlock far too well.

It was distracting and a far more interesting puzzle than Lestrade's insistence that he make his notes more "jury friendly," If they were such plebeians then they shouldn't be given the responsibility of deciding the outcomes of court-cases.

John hadn't even commented on Sherlock's task yet which meant he hadn't realised what Sherlock was doing. Because if he had there was no way that John would be sitting uncomfortable in his favourite chair and squirming. He'd be chortling with glee.

"Whatever it is, get it." Sherlock muttered after twenty minutes of watching. He suspected that it might be useful for future reference to know all the signs of John being uncomfortable, after all, it was likely to happen often given Sherlock's day to day life.

And personality.

And lack of interest in social niceties.

John turned to glare suspiciously, "What?" he asked attempting to look innocent.

It was gratifying to see that, despite their change in relationship, John's terrible acting skills roused nothing else besides vague amusement and irritation.

"Do you want me to deduce what you wish to get from upstairs or do you want to just go and get it?" Sherlock continued, typing away, knowing better than to hope John would notice that it was possible to use more than two fingers at a time when using the keyboard.

John sighed and eased out of the chair, switching the television off without a word. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to say something but instead he left the room.

When Sherlock heard him coming back down the stairs he purposefully kept his eyes on the screen. It was only when John placed a rather familiar looking case on the table that Sherlock tore his gaze away.

A violin case.

Slowly Sherlock raised his eyes to John's. But John was staring at the violin case, his finger tracing the edge slowly. Then, as if realising he was being watched, John pushed the case closer to Sherlock.

He still hadn't said a word.

John's shoulders slumped a little before dipping further down and smoothing out into a soldiers stance. It really was quite fascinating to see how John used his training during "stressful" moments.

Sherlock drew in a breath and turned back to the screen, starting to type once more as his brain whirled on ahead. Why was John giving that back to him now?

Guilt?

No, John had a message in returning the violin; there was something more that Sherlock wasn't seeing.

Sentiment. It was such a fickle thing…

Ahh.

"I hardly think that one night with under an hour in bed is enough to establish trust." Sherlock said, punctuating his words with his fingers upon the keys.

"Just take it back," John muttered clearly uncomfortable. "The room's small enough as it is with both Ava and I in it, without adding your stuff too."

Misdirection. A sloppy attempt and painfully obvious.

A look was enough to show John that he hadn't been fooled, and really, John ought to know better.

John crossed his arms, "I don't want to talk about it, just take it."

Ignoring the box, Sherlock stood up and advanced on John who immediately backed up.

That was unexpected.

Observing a discrete distance, Sherlock waited as John fixed his attention on the violin case again. Curious Sherlock allowed his gaze to switch between the case and John.

"I told you I'd return it to you," John said tightly. His shoulders were now rigid and his back utterly straight gaze fixed and chin stern.

He was very stressed then, if he was standing so firmly.

Sherlock nudged his thoughts slightly. It required something of a paradigm shift to change the way he automatically dealt with John. They were no longer friends…

He could step forward. He could see the nervous flutter of eye lashes as John's eyes tried not to watch what he was doing.

He was allowed to step into John's personal space and lower his head to nuzzle at the almost rough cheek. To breathe in the scent that was John and home.

He was allowed to murmur "Tell me," in a soft voice.

And John swallowed. "You were playing when I…when I first saw you as something other than a friend."

It made sense and didn't. Sherlock was starting to think that was the way that sentiment worked most of the time. It did make him feel strangely tender, which was ridiculous given that the man in front of him was capable of killing if the situation called for it.

Uneasy at the mixed emotions, Sherlock dipped his lips to meet John's. It was soft this time, soft and reassuring and comforting. John's hand tightened in his hair and it felt as if John was hanging on to Sherlock for dear life.

Soft turned to want very quickly. Sherlock suddenly felt the urge to prove…something, anything. That he was alive and with John and wouldn't be going anywhere if he could help it He wanted to show John that he was corporeal and have John anchor him back to life again.

And this time John was pliable. This time John wasn't chuckling or staring with a mischievous gleam. This time when they stumbled back into Sherlock's room –damn it he'd forgotten to shut that bloody curtain again – John didn't buck and raise that challenging eyebrow but instead allowed Sherlock to push him back onto the bed and press against him. He allowed Sherlock to peel off his clothes and explore with his hands because, despite this new and unexplored submissive side of John, there was no way that John would give up Sherlock's mouth.

It was absorbing, tracing John by touch alone. Feeling the jut of hip bones, the softness of the golden dusting of chest hair. To feel the differences in the strength of John's right and left wrists and the elegant dip of his collarbone. To lay a hand upon John's throat and feel the muscles move under his palm as they kissed and the way his pulse fluttered. To let the short strands of hair slip through the tips of his fingers. He could start to sketch John in his mind through touch alone, revelling in the different perspective. He needed the broad strokes first, detail and minute facts could be added in later.

Something in him soared at the idea that there would be a later.

It had been years since he'd just kissed. Just lain with someone and explored them properly. Not since his earliest experiments in this area had he tried to learn someone's body through his hands. There was something different about doing it for the simple sake of exploring rather than the sake of testing.

When Sherlock was satisfied that he'd discovered as much as he could, he let his hand delve in between them and delighted in John's strangled whimper into his mouth when he curled a hand around John's cock. Finally John pulled away from his lips, head tilting back to bare his throat and gasp at the ceiling.

Sherlock wanted more of the previous noise. He leaned up to grab those lips again, to feel the vibrations of John's moans. But as he moved John's eyes flickered open.

John had always been an open book. His mixture of frank honesty and unexplored depths had always been something of a siren song.

The dichotomy of John Watson. The confidence and the vulnerability, the assured body language and hesitant looks, the controlled lead and flushed cheeks.

Whatever experience John had in this new area of their relationship had likely reached its peak last night.

And didn't that make his mind sing in possessive pleasure.

Sherlock ghosted his lips over John's before sinking down. Down until John stiffened with realisation and clutched at his shoulders to pull him back up.

Sherlock tilted his gaze up and shot him an enquiring look. "Problem?"

John panted and seemed to collect his thoughts, "I…afterwards I haven't…" he grinned, suddenly self-deprecating, "Might not be able to pay you back properly," he settled on saying.

Sherlock nipped at the soft skin of John's inner thigh. "I would hope you wouldn't be so dull as to merely copy and repeat" he chided, "My turn, your turn, bores me rigid."

John's twisted in amusement, "Pardon the pun?"

Ignoring the sudden childish humour Sherlock swallowed him down and listened to the suddenly hoarse yelp that echoed from John.

Pulling back he tapped John's leg, "Quiet," he scolded, before resuming his task.

John's head leaned upon his hip as his hand lazily stroked circles on Sherlock's stomach. Even with his eyes closed Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to let his hand rest on the nape of John's neck and stroke against the shortest hairs there.

"You were annoyed at Mycroft," John said suddenly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Perhaps they should have bedroom rules. Rules such as banning Mycroft's name being mentioned.

John shifted against his hip. "You were playing some childish limerick. Then you stared to play every rude bawdy song you knew. And then you had me teach you every song I heard in the army."

Not long after Baskerville. Barely three months before Sherlock had left and only a week before Jim Moriarty had broken into the tower of London.

Two months John had managed to hide his feelings. Even more impressive was the fact that he'd managed a whole week while Sherlock hadn't been distracted by the consulting criminal.

Sherlock couldn't decide if that intrigued or annoyed him.

Still, that evening had made him smile during the years apart. John's wincing grins as he took a swig of beer for dutch courage. He had a dreadful singing voice but it had been enough to convey the basic tune. He'd collapsed into contagious giggles after the first few really rowdy ones and Sherlock had found it hard to keep a straight face. They'd stayed up until the early hours of the morning just swapping stories to make each other laugh.

"And you played Ave Maria before we went to bed. God knows why." John muttered.

Sherlock felt his heart thud strangely.

Ava.

John must have felt his reaction because he pushed up Sherlock's body and pressed a kiss to his mouth, "Well I could hardly name her Sherlockena now, could I?"

Unwilling to navigate that topic until he'd had time to think it through, Sherlock shifted to allow John some room on the pillow. "Perhaps it was the amount of alcohol you drank." He said after a moment to change the topic and take advantage of John's post orgasm haze.

"Hmm?" John queried, pressing into the pillow.

"The reason that you saw me in a different light. Perhaps it was the beer."

John shook his head with a sleepy smile, "I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun just sitting in a room with another person and doing nothing in particular." He yawned, "And then watching you play…you're incredible to watch. Your hands…" Then, as if realising what he'd said, John squinted at him, "When you want to play properly," he scolded.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling.

"Did you miss it? Playing?" John asked.

"It's hardly the only violin in the world," Sherlock muttered.

"I suppose not," John agreed, sounding too tired to get riled up by his comment.

Sherlock allowed the silence to drift. At least until it was punctuated by John's slight snoring.

Only when he was certain that John was sound asleep did Sherlock get out of bed, throw on a dressing gown, stalk into the living room and yank both sets of curtains shut before he sat at the table and stared at the violin case, lost in thought.

And, as agreed, he woke John up at half five so he could sneak back to his room. Ava was left none the wiser and John seemed to have no idea that he'd spent most of the night alone.

December 15th

The wife confirmed Sherlock's theory when she woke up two days later. Heartbroken she sobbed out her statement and begged to see her husband one last time.

At least no-one could claim he'd faked that one. And Lestrade managed to keep his name out of the papers when the press finally seized upon the story, given who the murder culprit was.

"It's your own fault for solving it too quickly," John commented as he and Ava got ready that morning. John was doing his tie in the living room and Ava was distinctly not brushing her hair as she'd been asked.

"Are you suggesting I drag the cases out?" Sherlock sulked watching the activity from his perch on the sofa. "Lestrade will be thrilled."

"You know what I meant." John muttered doing his tie the quick way, indicating that the former soldier couldn't give a stuff about whatever it was he'd been roped into going to. "Ava, the brush isn't there for decoration," he called over his shoulder as the little girl started to scribble on some scrap paper. "You didn't have to show off."

"Please," Sherlock curled up and turned the volume up on the television, "I could take years to solve the mystery of what's in Mrs Hudson's corner drawer and you'd still gape in awe."

John dropped his hands from his completed tie knot and tilted his head, "I doubt it seeing as you gave it to her."

Sherlock tore his eyes from the television and glanced at john. "She told you," he said sniffing in annoyance.

"About the antimony?" John made a disapproving noise, "She thought it would cheer me up."

Confused by that logic, Sherlock dismissed it as unimportant and sniffed indifferently.

"Ava!" John turned and held out a hand, "If you aren't going to do it, come here."

The five year old trailed into Sherlock's line of vision. "I want to stay at home in my dressing gown," she sulked, clutching the bear to her chest and holding the hair brush so loosely that it looked like it would drop to the floor any second.

John bent and lifted her sitting back in his chair so that Ava was perched on his lap and started to brush the raggedy mop of hair. "When you know as much as Sherlock does, you can," he said, trying to dislodge a rather reluctant tangle. "Until then, you need to go to school."

Ava eyed Sherlock up with clear jealousy in her blue gaze. Chewing her lip she seemed to be processing that information and coming up with a plan.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, dragging his eyes from the plotting child.

"I told you," John muttered, smoothing the now neatly brushed hair with one hand, looking slightly nervous now, as he always did when faced with Ava's hair and a bobble. "It's a conference on the benefits of the new treatment for diabetes, they're swapping over the tablets and we need to…" John huffed and stopped when he finally caught the bored expression on Sherlock's face, "Why ask?" he huffed.

"I don't feel well," Ava announced.

John barely even glanced at her, "Well enough to eat the cocoa pops this morning though?" he queried.

Ava's nose wrinkled and returned to chewing her lip.

"You'll be back late," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, and as I said before, Mrs Hudson will pick Ava up. If you're going to be around tonight then she can sleep in her room-"

"It's our room Daddy," Ava corrected, trying to turn around. John pulled a face as the hair slipped through his fingers and he had to attempt the ponytail again.

"-if not then she can stay in Mrs Hudson's spare room," John manoeuvred the band with surprising difficulty for one so usually adept and nimble with his fingers. "You don't have to do anything but sulk."

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to rebuke that statement.

"I'm sulking," Ava chirped up before he could say a word, "Can I stay at home and sulk here too."

John leaned back, staring at his handy-work with a pained sigh, "I thought you wanted to go to school today because they're taking you to church," he said with a put upon voice, "I mean if you really want to-"

"Can I not go to church and see the presents and then come home?" Ava asked plaintively.

"No," John lifted her off his lap. "And I think you'll find that there's more to going to church than seeing the presents."

"But the songs are slow." Ava's bottom lip jutted out slightly before she turned to Sherlock. "Do you like church?"

"Why on earth is she going to church?" Sherlock muttered.

"'Cause you have to go loads at Christmas. Tommy said it's the law." Ava replied solemnly.

Christmas.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling as John and Ava continued on with their morning.

When Sherlock walked through the front door at just before nine that evening, he paused on the stairs. Then continued on, pausing at the door to observe Mrs Hudson watching some soap thing that he was almost pained to have blaring from his television.

"Ooh, if you're back I'll just nip off once the music starts," she said cheerfully from her spot.

Silently he glanced around the flat. Ava's book bag was on the table and the oven had been used once again. John wasn't back yet, but then he'd known that from the spate of texts over the past few hours. Most of them complaining how dull the meeting was and how bad the trains were.

One memorable one had suggested a far better use of their time.

A whole new world of texting had just been opened up.

The violin hadn't been touched since the night John had returned the case to Sherlock. Carefully Sherlock drew it out, noting that John had either kept the stings and bow in working condition or had taken it somewhere recently to ensure the violin was in working order.

Either way the gesture was thoughtful.

The familiarity of standing at the window, watching the world and letting his hands draw out the long melodic notes was soothing. The view was perfect to watch the world walk by and clear enough to dip in and out of the lives of the passers-by without too much effort, all the while giving their walk a soundtrack that only he could hear.

He was not waiting for John. That would be too…too much.

But as his thoughts turned to John he could hear the music change. Instead of the fluid, lazy tune that he had been coaxing out from the instrument, the tune was turning more structured, more melodic.

After all, if John had attributed so much worth to the song, Sherlock really needed to ensure that he could still manage Bach's violin version of Ave Maria.

It was softer than the choir version. Sweeter and more subtle. Lulling in many ways and the reason he'd chosen it that night. John had still been suffering from nightmares stirred up from Baskerville, likely the army setting and the mine explosion more than Sherlock's test in the lab. Sherlock had been sure to wear him out with laughter and then soothe him with the music until he could barely keep his eyes open.

It was foolish to wonder how different things might have been had he tried a different approach to wearing John out and cajoling him into sleep. The method Sherlock was currently using was working wonders.

"Please don't send me away."

A sudden sniffing noise and choked hiccups startled him from his musings. Surprised at the sight of a crying Ava, Sherlock allowed the bow to screech before he lowered the instrument.

In her pink pyjamas and mused hair from sleep, Ava looked like a tiny doll that had just woken up. Sleepy eyes blinked up at him, the blue depths filled with spilling tears and her cheeks were flushed.

"Are you sick?" he asked, blindly scrabbling for a reason she was up.

"If I say yes can you not send me away?" Ava sniffed miserably.

"Send you…" Sherlock begun.

He needed John. How was he meant to know what was going on in the child's head? It was hardly relevant information

Or at least it hadn't been relevant information. Just one more thing that needed to change.

Trying not to let his frustration show Sherlock took a deep breath, "Why would we, what did you do?" he asked suspiciously.

"Daddy had to look after me last time and now you want to be together and you'll have to send me away," she sobbed.

"What?" he asked. A tickle at the back of his mind indicated that he'd had a similar conversation with her before about this. That conversation however had not ended in her in tears hours after she was meant to be asleep.

Not to mention that fact that her statement made no sense whatsoever.

"How on earth have you come to that conclusion?"

Ava shrugged, "I don't know," she said in a tiny voice that wobbled distressingly.. "Mrs Parker said people who fall in love want to be on their own."

That bloody teacher again. It was all Ava would ever talk about, as if the woman had hung the earth or something.

"Mrs Parker is an idiot." Sherlock settled for announcing.

"No she isn't." Ava wiped her nose on the back of her hand and Sherlock glanced around helplessly for a tissue. Children seemed to get very snotty when they got upset.

"You are not being sent anywhere." Sherlock said firmly, giving up the tissue scan as she wiped her hand on her pyjama top.

John could deal with that, he decided. John owed him for this.

"Even if you don't like me most of the time?" Ava asked between sniffs.

It was surprising how much that unsettled him. The idea that she thought he didn't like her. That she thought he would want to get rid of her.

Though he'd still gladly take anyone up on the offer of having the flat Ava free for a few nights to see how loud he could get John to be.

Placing the violin onto the desk he walked towards her carefully. She was tired, and most of this worry came from the fact that she was struggling to keep her eyes open. But she was standing still and firm, clearly unwilling to back away from the issue.

Carefully, Sherlock folded himself down onto the rug in front of her so they were eye level.

She was a stubborn little thing.

"Why do you think I don't like you?" he asked, trying to balance his tone between instructional and challenging.

But Ava just shrugged her shoulders.

Why the child insisted on shrugging he had no idea. It irritated him no end – it was a lazy answer, worse even than Andersons' uninspired grunts. At least his lungs made some effort.

"I've told you before that is not a valid answer." Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Tell me the evidence."

Ava eyed him suspiciously, but seemed a bit bolder now that he'd sat at her level. "You get annoyed that you have to hide the jar of fingers and all the other things. And you hate that I watched CBBC. And you don't like it when I ask you questions, even though you try to get Daddy to ask questions. And you don't like sharing Daddy with me." Sherlock watched as Ava squared her chin and waited.

Clever, clever girl.

There was a strange burst of…pride?...in his chest at her words. No other five year old could have managed that so succinctly. And no other child could surprise him quite that much.

Still she stood her ground, even as she swiped at her mouth with a nervous lick of her tongue.

"You are so much like your father," he heard himself say.

And so utterly, at the same time, her own little person. One day he would be talking to a grown up version of Ava, a version that he would have influenced and shaped.

A person that he and John would have raised and presented to the world.

And suddenly, that very true list that she had rattled off didn't seem quite so bad when faced with this newest idea.

John walked in half an hour later, looking thoroughly hacked off.

"Is Ava upstairs?" John asked, yanking the tie loose and almost throwing it across the room.

"Yes," Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling.

John let out an irritated sound, "Think the shower will wake her up?" he asked.

"I doubt it, seeming as she's only just gone back to bed."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see John freeze.

"Back to bed?" John asked, coming over, "Why, what was wrong."

"She wanted to check that I didn't hate her or want to send her away."

John nodded slowly, "Right…and she got that idea from?"

"She deduced it." Sherlock replied without any inflection.

John was quiet for a long time as he then sat in his chair and bent to take off his shoes.

"You sent her back to bed?"

Slowly Sherlock turned his head. "It's a school night."

Free from his shoes, John walked over and stood staring down at him. "Sherlock-"

"I told her I didn't hate her. She seemed perfectly fine after that." Despite his best efforts some of his incredulousness still leaked into his voice.

Had that really been all she wanted to know.

Sherlock could feel John's smile when he bent to place a kiss on his forehead, before taking himself off upstairs. Ten minutes later the shower started to run.

Perhaps it was a family trait; only asking for the strangest, most obvious things and taking the most obscure hidden meaning from the answer.

Hope you all enjoyed.