This update has been a long time coming, I'm afraid. But it's here now! Thank you all for your patience. I hope you enjoy it.

I've changed the rating of this story to M because of the mature content in this chapter and later ones.

Chapter Two

Sherlock arrived home to surprisingly empty house, an ecstatic welcome from Redbeard and a note from Nanny Marie on the kitchen table. It read:

Dance school called. Freddie required immediately for an emergency rehearsal. Taking him (and Violet, of course).

An emergency rehearsal? he thought. What sort of dance rehearsal could possibly be classed as an emergency?

The only emergency, in his opinion, was the need to relieve Marie and Violet from their duties at the dance school! He checked his watch. It was nearly four o'clock. The school wasn't far away. He looked at Redbeard's pleading expression and knew he absolutely had to take the puppy along, too. They could walk there in ten minutes or so, even allowing for a detour through the park to enable Redbeard to run off some youthful exuberance. Marie could bring the dog back home with her and Violet.

'Come on, then!' he called, turning on his heels and exiting, via the front door, collecting the puppy's lead from the coat hooks in the hall as he passed.

On arrival at the old Social Services office building, now repurposed as an Art Centre which included the dance school, Sherlock remembered to keep his sunglasses on as he entered the Reception Area. The décor had not changed for as long as any current attendees could remember – still the lurid shade of pink that had so taken Sherlock aback the first time he came here.

'You can't bring that in here!' screeched a very familiar voice.

'Ah, Miss Margo! A delight to behold, as ever,' Sherlock exclaimed, addressing the diminutive but formidable old lady seated at the reception desk, currently giving him the evil eye which he returned with a searchlight smile. Miss Margo, the Guardian Gatekeeper as Sherlock referred to her – though never to her face since, on the one hand, he would not dare and, on the other hand, he was quite fond of the old dragon – was not won over by the smile. She continued to glare at Redbeard, who stood by Sherlock's side, jaw gaping and tongue lolling from his run round the park, looking around at all the strange new people in this strange new place with such fascinating strange new smells.

'This is a dance school, not a dog's home,' growled Miss Margo.

''Well, that's not a problem,' Sherlock replied, in full-on 'charm' mode, 'since he already has a home.'

By this time, Violet, who had been sitting with Marie on one of the wooden chairs that lined the walls of the Reception Area, leafing through her favourite storybook, had jumped up and rushed over to throw her arms around Sherlock's knees.

'Daddee!' she squealed.

Obviously, that was a cue for Redbeard, who proceeded to cavort around on the end of his lead, barking excitedly, much to Miss Margo's absolute horror.

'Mr Holmes!' she exhorted. 'Get your beast under control…and out of my Reception Area! This is outrageous!'

Sherlock scooped Violet into his arms and wound the dog's lead around his hand a few times to limit Redbeard's range, shushing him - though to little or no effect but, fortunately, Marie came to the rescue. Bringing Freddie's kit bag with her, she crossed the room and bundled Sherlock, Violet and the over-excited canine out of the room, into the corridor.

'What's the emergency?' Sherlock asked.

'One of the other children had an accident…nothing serious, just a broken toe but it means they can't dance in the competition so Miss Simone wants Freddie to learn the role so he can dance in the other child's place.'

Another role? thought Sherlock. Freddie already had a solo, a duet, a trio and a group dance. Sherlock wondered how the boy would feel about being given another role to learn.

'Is Freddie happy with that?' he asked.

'Oh, yes, he's delighted,' Marie replied. 'As pleased as Punch, in fact,' she added, with a giggle that seemed rather out of proportion to the relative wit of the remark.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was clearly missing something.

'Oh, sorry, I forgot to mention, didn't I,' Marie apologised. 'He's dancing the role of Mr Punch in a Punch and Judy trio.'

'Oh. Well. I'm sorry you had to traipse all the way over here. You should have called,' Sherlock apologised for the inconvenience.

'No problem,' the nanny assured him. 'We enjoyed the walk and, anyway, you and Molly had important business to attend to. How was it, by the way?'

'Amazing,' he replied, 'and all good,' he added, surprising himself with the surge of emotion that accompanied that reply. Marie saw it, too, and placed a hand on his arm. Taking the image of the ultrasound from his pocket, Sherlock held it out for the nanny to see.

'Oh, that's lovely,' she cooed.

Violet was curious to know what was on the piece of paper that Daddy and Marie were so interested in.

'Sow me, Daddy!' she demanded.

He adjusted the angle of his hand so she could see the image, too.

Redbeard was also curious about what had come out of his master's pocket and raised his head, sniffing hopefully, but quickly lost interest when he realised it wasn't food.

'Who dat, Daddy?' Violet asked, pointing at the image of the baby's face.

'That's your new baby sibling,' Sherlock replied, 'inside Mummy.'

He was careful to avoid using the phrase 'in Mummy's stomach', since it had caused such confusion when he said it William about Freddie. William had quite rightly associated the word 'stomach' with food processing and had deduced, therefore, that Mummy must have eaten the new baby. It was some time before that particular misunderstanding was cleared up. They were quicker off the mark with the 'baby's new shoes' debacle but these early faux pas had taught both parents to be much more careful with their use of language when discussing anything childbirth-related with the other children.

'De noo baby?' she queried.

'Yes, the new baby,' he confirmed.

'Noo baby 'leepin'?' Violet asked.

'Yes, sort of,' Sherlock replied. 'Resting.'

'Put it away, now,' said Violet, pushing his hand away. She was a little wary of this 'noo baby' that everyone seemed so pleased about.

Sherlock took the hint and placed the ultrasound image back in his pocket.

He and Marie made the swap – Violet and Redbeard for Freddie's kit bag – and Marie departed with her charges. Sherlock sauntered down the corridor to the little kitchenette where parents were permitted to make themselves drinks while they waited for their off-spring. He made himself a cup of tea and placed a one-pound coin in the Honesty Box then carried his drink back to the Reception Area cum Waiting Room and found a vacant chair.

Following the Gala at the end of June, the school had effectually closed for the Summer so that the whole of July could be devoted to rehearsing for the big dance competition in Brighton at the end of the month. The importance of the Brighton Dance Festival to all the dance schools in London and the South-East could not be overstated. It provided an opportunity to showcase their talent and a shop window for those looking to change dance schools. The prestige boosting potential was huge but it depended on the children performing at their very best, hence the intense focus on preparing for this major event.

The Reception Area was currently occupied by the parents or guardians of the children who were rehearsing their pieces – presumably those of the other two members of the Punch and Judy trio were amongst them. Sherlock didn't recognise any of them. This wasn't his 'usual' crowd. He took a seat and sipped his tea while surreptitiously observing the other occupants, deducing their innermost secrets for his own amusement.

About half an hour into his gratuitous deductions, a door opened down the corridor and the sound of children's voices could be heard approaching. Moments later, they arrived in the Reception Area and gravitated to their individual grown-ups, Freddie running straight over to Sherlock. He looked hot and sweaty and ecstatically happy.

'Daddy!' he exclaimed, 'I've got a new part!'

Sherlock grinned as he greeted his middle child with a hug, then reached for the kit bag to take out Freddie's regular clothes. The other children disappeared into the changing room while Freddie stripped off his dancewear down to his underpants. Sherlock handed him his shorts, t-shirt and sandals, one at a time, and he put them on.

The rule of no adults other than the school staff being allowed in the changing room meant that any children still needing assistance with dressing and undressing changed in the Reception Area. Freddie was very close to reaching that milestone. He could put on and take off his own clothing unassisted but still needed a little assistance with fastenings. Zips and Velcro, however, had proven to be a godsend.

Freddie's gross and fine motor skills had come on in leaps and bounds since they had consulted the Physio and Speech Therapist last year – well, consulted was probably a bit of a stretch. Sherlock had virtually kidnapped them and dragged them back to Firs Lodge, under the guise of an invitation to supper, to carry out an impromptu assessment on Freddie after the school SENCO had suggested he might be dyspraxic.

Dancing lessons had certainly helped with his gross motor development and spacial awareness; and the tongue and lip exercises recommended by the Speech Therapist seemed to have made a big difference to his pronunciation. He still confused the s, f, v and th sounds occasionally but, apparently, that was quite common in children his age and nothing to be concerned about.

Sherlock had eventually found it in himself to thank the SENCO for bringing Freddie's idiosyncrasies to their attention because, otherwise, they would have continued to treat them as just Freddie-isms and left him to his own devices. It was obvious now that there would have been no improvement without their intervention. Over the last year, he had pretty much caught up with his class mates in all the areas where he had been lagging behind.

Just as Freddie fastened the Velcro on his second sandal, the dance teacher, Miss Simone appeared through the doorway and approached father and son.

'Well done, Freddie,' she exclaimed. 'You're picking up the steps really quickly. I hope you don't mind me casting your boy in another piece, Mr Holmes, but I think the role suits him perfectly.'

Sherlock could only shrug. As long as Freddie was happy, so was he.

'And don't worry about the costume. We have one that our seamstress can alter to fit Freddie. And I won't be charging you for the rehearsal time, since Freddie and you are doing us a favour, stepping in at the last minute.'

The cost of the rehearsals was immaterial, in Sherlock's opinion, but he wasn't about to argue. She was quite current – Freddie was helping them out of a fix.

'Could we have him in again tomorrow afternoon, at three o'clock?' she pleaded, hands clasped, rather theatrically.

'Is that alright with you, Freddie?' Sherlock asked.

'Oh, yes, Daddy! I love my new dance. And I love being Mr Punch!' Freddie replied, effusively.

'Then I'm sure it can be arranged,' Sherlock confirmed. He would bring the boy himself, if necessary.

He finished stuffing Freddie's belongings back inside his kit bag, and they took their leave of Miss Simone and left the building.

'Fancy a lift?' he asked, once they were outside on the pavement.

'Ooh, yes, please!' Freddie grinned with delight, so Sherlock hoisted the child off the ground and onto his shoulders then strode off in the direction of home, gripping the child's ankle with one hand and the kit bag in his other.

ooOoo

Molly arrived on the platform just as her Tube train was pulling in. It was around four in the afternoon and although most of the independent schools had broken up for the summer, the state schools were still open so the station was crowded with children and young people on their way home. Dressed in their summer uniforms – the boys in long trousers and short-sleeved shirts, the girls in cotton dresses – they resembled a flock of brightly coloured birds as they moved along the platform towards the front of the train. Molly hung back, waiting for the train to pull up, happy to climb aboard the usually less crowded last carriage.

When the train stopped and the doors swished open, she stepped aboard to find her strategy had paid off and there were several empty seats. She took advantage of the nearest one. In her job, she was on her feet nearly all the time so, even though she was only travelling a few stops, an opportunity to take the weight off those feet was not to be missed. The doors swished closed and the train moved off.

Molly looked up at the frieze above the windows on the opposite side of the train, which displayed a diagram of the stations on this line. She counted the stops along to her destination – just four. That wouldn't take long. She would be back at work in about fifteen minutes so, by the end of her shift, should have written up the reports of the post mortems she had carried out earlier in the day. Relaxing back into her seat, she adjusted her work bag in her lap and settled in for the short journey.

Two young girls sitting opposite were chattering away in French. The identical bright pink back packs they were both holding on their laps marked them out as pupils of one of the many language schools that drew students to London from all over the world, especially during the summer months.

Molly had studied French at school to GCSE level and had retained just about enough to get by on foreign holidays but the girls talked very fast - about something one was showing the other on her smart phone - so Molly had no idea what the conversation was about. But whatever it was, they were both finding it highly amusing, laughing and giggling in that carefree way of young girls the world over.

In the 'old days', before everyone had mobile phones, Molly observed, people used to read books or magazines on the Underground. Now, apparently, they read Tweets! Molly was surprised there was a signal, this far underground, but then she realised the train probably had Wi-Fi. How fast the world was changing. It was moments like these that made her feel rather old.

The train pulled in at the next station. A couple of people got off, a couple got on, the doors closed and the train moved on.

As Molly ruminated on her philosophical observations of the changing times, the young girls' phone pinged loudly. The girls' lively conversation stopped abruptly and they stared at the smartphone screen. Then they looked up and their eyes met Molly's across the car. She was immediately struck by the look of shock and fear on their faces and her mothering instincts were instantly triggered.

'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' Molly exclaimed, reaching out, across the gap between them, toward the girls. They looked at one another then back at her, their expressions doubtful, but then the girl on the left said something to the one holding the phone and she offered the object to Molly, who took it from her and looked at the screen. And her own expression changed too.

The image on the screen was that of a man's erect penis - a 'dick pic', as they were colloquially known. Molly had seen a fair few penises in her time – usually belonging to the corpses she dealt with on a daily basis, but some live ones, too. So, penises - even erect ones - did not alarm her, per se. What alarmed her was that this one had popped up – no pun intended – unbidden on the phone of this innocent young girl, going about her legitimate business in the capital city of a so-called civilised country. It took Molly a moment or two to realise how this had happened.

The image had been deliberately Air Dropped by someone in very close proximity – someone sitting in this carriage, on this train.

Molly looked around at the other people nearby and she happened to catch the eye of a man sitting a few seats along the carriage. He quickly looked away but the slight smirk on his lips, coupled with the fact that no one else in the carriage seemed remotely aware of the drama unfolding therein, was enough to confirm his culpability in Molly's opinion. She looked across at the girls and their gaze met again. They had not seen what she had seen but the fear in their eyes was undiminished and it was obvious to Molly what was going through their minds. What if the perpetrator, whoever he was, were to follow them when they got off the train?

Molly looked back at the image on the phone then brought it to her face to take a closer look, aware that the man was watching her from the corner of his eye. Having given the offending image a forensically thorough visual examination, she brandished the phone in the air and said, in a very loud voice,

'Whoever owns this appendage, I'm sorry to inform you that it shows clear signs of a fairly advanced STI. I am a qualified doctor but I don't conduct clinics on public transport so, if I were you, I'd make an appointment with my own GP, ASAP, and get it dealt with. A course of powerful antibiotics should do the trick.'

Everyone in the carriage looked up in surprise and with some amusement at this sudden and unexpected announcement but the reaction of the 'suspect' was quite dramatic. He jumped to his feet, seething with rage and took a step towards Molly. But she met his eyes with a steely glare that Sherlock himself would have been proud of and pointed to the CCTV camera above the door at the end of the carriage. And now everyone in the carriage was looking at him.

'You fucking bitch!' he snarled.

The train began to slow as it approached the next station and the man hunched his shoulders as he made his way to the double doors in the middle of the carriage. When the train stopped and the doors opened, he stepped off onto the platform and hurried away.

Molly was then able to turn her attention back to the two girls, who were now visibly quite upset – close to tears, in fact.

'Parlez-vous anglais?' she asked.

'Oui, madame…yes, we do…a little bit,' said the girl on the right, whose phone had been violated.

'Which station are you going to?' Molly asked, gently.

'Liverpool Street,' the other girl answered. That was Molly's station, too.

'When we get there, I want you to come with me,' she explained. 'We must report this to the Transport Police. They have access to the CCTV…' She pointed again to the round, blue CCTV camera above the end door. '…so they will be able to get a picture of that man - his face, I mean.'

Molly was in no doubt that this was not the first time the man had airdropped pornographic images on unsuspecting young girls on the London Underground and she was determined to do whatever she could to have him brought to justice. But she was also concerned for the girls themselves as they had clearly had a terrible shock.

'Where are you staying?' she asked, smiling reassuringly.

'The youth hostel by St Paul's,' the girls replied, in unison, then smiled - for the first time since the drama began – at the fact that they had both said the same thing at the same time.

'Who is there with you?' Molly asked. 'Are you with a group?'

'Yes, a group,' one of the girls replied, holding up her pink back pack which had the group's name printed in French on the front flap.

Molly would make sure the police contacted whoever was in charge of the group and arranged to have the girls picked up and chaperoned back to the youth hostel. It was a sad state of affairs when two young visitors to the city could not travel on public transport, in broad daylight, without being molested in this way. And Molly did consider this a molestation. The man had exposed himself to them, just as if he had done so in person, like the 'flashers' of old, in their dirty old 'flasher macs'. She hoped the girls would get the support they needed and not suffer any long-term effects from this traumatic experience.

When the train arrived at Liverpool Street Station, Molly shepherded the girls to the Transport Police office, just off the main concourse. She had kept hold of the girls' phone, to make sure they couldn't delete the image – though she quite understood why they might want to – as the police would need it for evidence. She explained to the officers on duty what had happened then handed the phone and the girls into their care before taking her leave, amid tearful hugs of gratitude from the children, and returning to work to finish her shift.

ooOoo

'I do wonder what sort of world we are bringing this baby into,' said Molly, as she nestled in Sherlock's arms in their bed that night. 'I don't imagine that anyone at Apple ever thought, when they invented Air Drop, that it might be used by some pervert to frighten little girls on a train!'

Sherlock's brows furrowed.

'I doubt that anyone ever imagines how their wonderful inventions might be abused,' he murmured, 'but, unfortunately, there will always be people who take advantage of the best intentioned. The trick is to learn from these mistakes and try to second guess the bad actors in the future.'

'Easier said than done,' Molly replied. 'But let's agree, right now, not to give our children smart phones until they are at least eighteen.'

'Agreed,' he affirmed, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. 'They'll hate us for it, of course, but perhaps they'll thank us, too, eventually.'

ooOoo