A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews I have received so far for this story. I am overwhelmed, it's wonderful. I hope you continue to enjoy this story, and please keep the reviews coming, they really do help. You're all amazing! :-D Hope you have a very Happy New Year. All the best for 2014!

On the 3rd day of Christmas my true love gave to me ...

28th December

The sound of fingers drumming against the table was loud in the silence of the flat as Sherlock sat in the kitchen waiting the required minutes for the reaction between the feather and 50ml of the concentrated sulphuric acid to take place. Glancing at his brand new stopwatch (a Christmas present from John, handed over before he left for his sister's house), he saw that there was still fifteen minutes left until he could continue with the next stage of his experiment. Rising to his feet, Sherlock decided to leave the feather/acid mixture for a while and devote some time and considerable brain power to the mystery of his apparent 'true love'. He walked to the sofa and laid down, raising his hands to his lips in typical thinking pose.

Searching through his memories of the previous day, he brought to the forefront of his mind the various interactions he'd had with all of the people he had spoken to, once he left the flat yesterday lunchtime.

First was the taxi driver, nothing much of interest there. Though, Sherlock thought, if he had to listen to any more of the man's interminable droning about his family, the state of the economy, and the dreadful weather, there was a strong possibility that a truly spectacular murder would be committed. Now that would be interesting, but no matter. Move on. This was achieved with a sharp flick of his wrist as Sherlock placed the taxi driver into his recycling bin, which he would empty at the end of his time in his mind palace.

Second on the list was Detective Sergeant Donovan. "Ah Sally" thought Sherlock with a smirk. He would give thanks to every deity in the known universe and beyond if he could be certain that his secret admirer was not the dreadfully dull Sally Donovan. Putting his disgust aside at the terrifying thought, he focused his memory on her reaction to his presence at the crime scene. There didn't appear to be any difference in her usual demeanour when he arrived. She was as rude and thoroughly obnoxious as she always was when speaking to him. However, could it all be an elaborate pretence to put him off the scent? Sherlock gave a violent shudder as an old memory surfaced, of his first day in nursery. A small girl had come up behind him and pulled on his curly hair, when he had turned around, she had kissed him, giggled, and then ran back to her nanny. Sherlock had been mortified, and further horrified to see his older brother standing next to their own nanny, laughing heartily at the disgusted expression on Sherlock's face.

Is that what Sally was doing, verbally abusing him instead of pulling his hair like the little girl all those years ago?

Before Sherlock could give any more thought to the matter, he heard a persistent beeping coming from the kitchen. Ruthlessly pushing the memory of that day in nursery into his deepest, darkest dungeon, he exited his mind palace, and sat up, swung his legs off the sofa and stood upright. Walking over to the kitchen table, he pushed the button on the stopwatch to silence the alarm, before sitting down in front of the microscope, and pulling the container of feather/acid mush and a new box of slides towards himself. Placing his goggles over his eyes, he began to carefully and meticulously prepare his slides of mush for the microscope.

Once he had the slides prepared to his satisfaction, he removed his goggles, took a deep calming breath, placed his first slide under the microscope and leant over.

Sherlock had just put his third slide in place, when the silence of the flat was disturbed by the sound of footsteps moving rapidly up the stairs from the floor below.

Quickly deducing the owner of the footsteps, Sherlock turned in his seat and said, 'Good morning Inspector, why are you here? I gave you everything you need to catch the perpetrator of the latest crime when I saw you at the scene yesterday. Though in all honesty, how you missed the glaringly obvious is beyond even my comprehension.'

'Yeah, thanks!' replied Lestrade sarcastically. 'I need to take a statement, we need everything in writing and above board these days, and I know that without John around, we'll never get you to come in for something as mundane as a statement. When is he due back anyway?'

Sherlock huffed sulkily as he answered the older man, 'I'm not sure, I had a text from him yesterday evening, apparently something's come up and he isn't sure when he will be returning to the flat.'

'That's too bad, mate.' replied Lestrade. Then, handing Sherlock a package neatly wrapped in plain brown paper, he said 'Oh, before I forget, I saw Mrs. Hudson on my way in, she was just about to come up here. Another parcel was delivered apparently. Said that I'd bring it up, save her legs, the poor woman. It can't be good for her you know, traipsing up and down these stairs every day at her age.'

Sherlock stopped listening as soon as he took hold of the parcel, focusing all of his attention instead on the box in his hands. The wrapping was just as meticulous as the previous two packages, the only difference was that the word 'Fragile' had been stamped onto the paper in several places prior to the package being wrapped.

Standing up, Sherlock placed the parcel on the table and went through his, now familiar, ritual of checking the box. Once this was complete, he carefully removed the wrapping and lifted the lid of the container within.

A frown appeared on Sherlock's brow as he looked down into the box, then lifting it carefully, he handed the box to Lestrade and removed the note from underneath. Greg gaped at the contents of the box in surprise, looking down he saw three hen's eggs resting on a bed of cotton wool.

Reading the note aloud for Lestrade's benefit, Sherlock said 'My dear Sherlock, please find enclosed my third gift for you. Ask Mrs. Hudson (nicely!) to use them to make an omelette for you for breakfast. They were purchased fresh from the supermarket today. The eggs are not to be used in any experiment! I can't have my Sherlock wasting away. Always, Your True Love.'

Lestrade placed the box carefully on the table and looked up at the young consulting detective. Grinning widely, he remarked 'Well, isn't that sweet! Someone obviously cares for you. I'll just pop downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson to come up. Then you can ask her to make you a nice omelette.'

Sherlock frowned as he watched the inspector go downstairs to fetch his landlady, "who is doing this?" he thought, "and what the hell has three eggs got to do with Christmas, surely that's Easter?"

His thoughts were quickly interrupted by Lestrade's return as he bounded back up the stairs.

'Mrs. Hudson's on her way up. You know, I was wondering how your secret admirer was going to do the 'Three French Hens', it's certainly a novel approach to the gifts.' Greg said as he entered the flat, completely missing the look of comprehension flash across Sherlock's face at his words.