A/N: Yet another chapter, yay! I had initially planned on putting this a little later in the story, but it was a tough call. There's a small bit of violence in this chapter, but not as much as one might expect in a Sherlock fic.

Read and review please!

Parenting was going well. It was rather easy actually. It was all about timing and rules. Getting Alex off to school on time. Getting Alex into bed on time. Making rules on what to eat. Making rules on what to do. Rules time rules time. Though neither of those were Sherlock's favorite, he muddled along and felt he was finally beginning to get the hang of it. Of course, Mrs. Hudson was bound to disagree.

"All children are difficult at times, Sherlock," she pointed out. "Just you wait. Mary used to tell me tales, let me tell you. He may seem like a little angel right now, but you'll soon learn they look that way to keep us from strangling them."

Sherlock had ignored that. Alex wasn't like most children. He was intelligent. He was mature. Sherlock didn't need to worry about any of those normal things. Other than a little crying over his parents, but otherwise he'd been fairly easy to deal with. Rare complaints about bedtime, or the occasional green vegetable. But it wasn't until a few months in that Sherlock had his first taste of real challenge.

Alex came home from school one afternoon seeming oddly quiet. He played for a bit up in his room, but when Mrs. Hudson called him down to have some of the dinner she'd prepared (thank goodness since Sherlock realized he'd forgotten to buy food during the day), he was even more silent.

As they ate Alex kept looking at him. After a while he paused and set his fork aside.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

"May I ask, and if you must," Sherlock muttered, eyes trailing over the newspaper to the side of his plate, still looking for hints of Moriarty's activity in the news.

"Would…er…would you let me play football next fall?"

Sherlock frowned, not bothering to look up. "Why ever would you want to do that?"

"All my friends are going to. Plus…some people still are being mean to me…and…I thought if I showed them I'm good at sports maybe they'll be nicer."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "So, you'll neglect your studies to go play pointless games? What good will that do you? None. No, I don't believe that's a good idea."

"But everyone's playing."

"You don't do something just because everyone's doing it," Sherlock muttered, lifting a fork to his mouth, studying some news about a bank robbery that he had a definite feeling held potential. He'd have to phone Lestrade.

"So no?"

"No," Sherlock agreed. "You'd be much better off doing something else with your time."

"Please, Sherlock. I really want to play."

Sherlock sighed. "I don't have time to deal with taking you to practice and all that. Don't worry, you'll find something else to do."

There was a long silence, Sherlock was relieved that was the end of it and went back to studying over the minute details of the robbery. The story said there were two men involved, but he had a feeling there were three. But he'd need more in order to be sure.

A crash interrupted his thoughts.

Sherlock looked up to see Alex scowling at him, his half eaten plate smashed on the floor. Alex's hands were curled into fists on the now cleared table. His blue eyes were staring at Sherlock with some impossible level of rage, though he could just barely make out tears brimming as well.

"Why can't you ever understand!" Alex suddenly shouted. "You never try to understand! You don't get it. I try so hard to show you but you never see it! I hate you!"

Sherlock sat frozen, staring at this transformed child in front of him, unable to process the sudden change in attitude. Before he could say a word though, Alex rose and darted off towards the door. A loud slam echoed down the stairway and then thumping footsteps and a scream that dissolved into rough sobs.

The detective stared at the table, at his own plate growing cold. The reaction hadn't been anticipated. Then again, many times he was wrong in his anticipations in regards to human emotion. Still, the level of outburst seemed unwarranted in his mind.

Footsteps made him aware of someone entering the flat. Instead of seeing Alex returning, it was Mrs. Hudson, eyes wide.

"What was that all about? What happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head and pushed his plate away. "I'm not sure. An outburst of some kind. Something about wanting to play football…"

"Oh, he's been talking about that for a week now. So exciting isn't it! Something for him to do, get that energy out. Wouldn't that be delightful?"

"I told him I thought there were better uses for his time," Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson's jaw dropped. "Oh Sherlock you didn't!"

He shrugged and watched as she bent over to start trying to gather up broken fragments of plate.

"He's been dealing with bullying in school. I told you that, a few weeks back, weren't you listening?"

Sherlock shrugged again, glancing back at the newspaper.

"He just wants to fit in. And I think he's got some natural athletic talent in him. He is John's after all. He needs outlets. Needs things to do. Ways to find friends. Oh please don't ignore that, Sherlock. He's going to fall apart if you're not careful."

Sherlock snorted, but watched her curiously as she finished cleaning and headed back towards the stairs. He didn't really see the point in letting Alex go do this silly thing, but Mrs. Hudson seemed to think it was important, and she seemed to have a better understanding of the way children thought about things than he did.

Rising from his chair, Sherlock walked towards the stairs, thinking of what he'd say as he made his way up. He knocked on the door, waiting a moment and then opening it.

Something hit him right between the eyes. Sherlock made a sharp noise and stumbled backwards, catching himself on the wall. He turned to see Alex holding a toy gun, scowling at him fiercely.

"Go away!" Alex snapped.

"Alex, we need to talk," Sherlock said, sticking out a hand, but not in enough time to stop the next toy bullet that hit his chest.

"Leave me alone!"

A third bullet struck him, almost in the exact same spot on his chest. Right over his heart. Realization of Alex's impressive aim struck him. Like mother like son apparently. Though he normally could make out more John, at the moment he was thrown back to memories of Mary pointing a gun at him after he'd discovered her secret.

"Alex, please. I want to talk about this." Sherlock held up both his hands and edged along the wall to better enter the room. Alex reluctantly lowered his weapon, giving Sherlock a chance to study the tearstained face.

"Mrs. Hudson says—she says you've been dealing with more bullying."

Alex set the gun on the bed and grabbed up a soft toy. He buried his face in the stuffed bear and began to sob. Sherlock stood there just a moment before walking closer, reluctantly holding out a hand, eventually letting it rest on Alex's soft hair. He sat on the bed and stroked Alex's hair, noticing that it was probably getting a little long. With all his powers of observation, there were plenty of things to which he was oblivious.

"Would you like—like to talk about it?" Sherlock asked, grimacing.

Alex shook his head. "Y-you wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Sherlock said with a sigh, reaching over to pull Alex closer, wrapping his other arm around him.

"Kids at school are mean. They make fun of me f-for being smart," Alex sobbed. "And I thought if I played football they might like me more. 'Cause all the most popular boys play football. And I want to too."

"I understand, Alex," Sherlock said. "Better than you know. Do you know what I was called in school?"

"N-no."

"Freak. Weirdo." Sherlock took a deep breath, trying not to think too hard on those old days. "I never wanted to fit in though. I gave up on that. I felt I was better than them. I—but you're not like me. You're like your father. And your father always wanted people to like him too…and I don't think I can ever understand, but I will respect your wish. This next fall we'll find time to have you join a football league."

"Really?" Alex asked, wiping his eyes.

"Yes. Though…I think at this point I am supposed to do some sort of…punishment thing for your behavior earlier."

Alex frowned. "Can you just take away my telly time?"

"Mmm…will you bother me when I'm working?"

"Maybe."

"Then no. What about…no ice cream this week."

Alex giggled. "That punishes you too."

"I'll live," Sherlock said with an eye roll. "So, punishment given. No more screaming and breaking plates. And you'll apologize to Mrs. Hudson for the mess."

"She's not supposed to clean it up!" Alex pointed out. "She's not our housekeeper."

"Regardless, she did. So apologize."

"Yeah." Alex paused and looked up at Sherlock, tears rapidly drying. "You're not very good at this punishing thing, are you?"

"Not really." Sherlock muttered. "My parents used to just send me to my room. Which was where I preferred to be anyways."

Alex giggled, but soon sobered and looked at him more seriously. "I didn't mean what I said, Sherlock. I…Sherlock I love you."

The detective froze as Alex suddenly threw his arms around his neck, giving him a tight hug. Those words. Three simple words he'd only heard on a rare occasion from his family. But he'd never really expected to hear them. Least of all after having Alex have a moment of rage and tears. Were children really this volatile? He'd heard this before, of course, but never quite expected it.

Sherlock closed his arms around Alex in a hug, not daring to whisper those words in return. He didn't trust his voice. Nor did he know if he really meant them. What did love mean after all? It was a rather imprecise word.

"We'll sign you up for football," Sherlock settled for instead, thinking back to the impressive aiming earlier, already having a good feeling Alex would do rather well athletically.

Three months later proved that point. As Sherlock sat on cold metal bleachers, huddling into his coat less from cold and more from fear of inviting attention of the other parents who were eagerly cheering and clapping. Mrs. Hudson kept shouting out things to Alex, delightedly remarking to Sherlock what a great athlete he was going to be.

In the meantime, Sherlock's gaze calculated her words, admitting she had a point as Alex scored a third goal early in the first half. He was impressive. He had precision in his movements, speed in his running, obvious thought before he made any sort of play. But what Sherlock was beginning to see were aspects of both his parents he hadn't quite anticipated. Mary's deadly assassin background, John's army one. Both were talented in those respects. Alex was putting forward his potential for such as well. Especially as Sherlock noted some level of aggression in his plays.

One of the opposing players muttered something to Alex as they walked back to centerfield. He saw the boy's head jerk, brow furrowing, jaw clenching. Even so he didn't react in the moment. He waited until they started again, but he saw it. Watched as Alex turned his attention to the play, and in a moment no one would connect back, he aimed a ball towards the boys head.

As the boy was pulled from the field with a bloody nose Sherlock kept running through Mycroft's words.

Instilling psychopathic tendencies.

Alex didn't look overly concerned as the other boy was taken from the field, blood dripping from his face.

Whether or not Mycroft was right on his influence, Sherlock was becoming aware not only of parenting's complications in instilling a balance of discipline and indulgence, but also of the complicated balance of human ability. The question as old as time of nature vs. nurture played in his mind. Was he influencing Alex? Or was this merely the boy's real self coming forward in moments where it was called for? John had been deadly in spite of his compassion. Mary too. But was there danger in that? He'd simply have to hope his guiding hand would do its work.