A/N The first posting of this story was riddled with errors which have now hopefully been corrected thanks to the gracious proof-reading by Old Ping Hai. I apologize for my sloppy first edition and thank Old Ping Hai for her help in fixing it :D Any remaining errors are my own.

This is the first of (hopefully) many one shots based on another one shot, the almost-aptly-named Many Firsts. I think this chapter of Many Returns will stand alone, but is does directly follow the events of Many Firsts, so you might want to read Many Firsts first...or not.

So even if you went to read Many Firsts, you appear to be back for Many Returns. And if you didn't leave to read Many Firsts, you are still here, and probably wondering why. Regardless, Please Note: the following fic contains fluff bordering on crack. Sherlock and John will behave out of character compared to canon.

Rated M for adult innuendo.

In this chapter, Sherlock begins to negotiate his new life as John's partner and one of Elizabeth's caregivers.

Many Returns

Chapter 1 The First Night

Sherlock resurfaced slowly, gently, taking a deep breath of cool evening air, noting that he'd left the window cracked open. Then he snuggled deeper under the warm covers. He buried his face into the soft pillow that smelled of John.

Of course, John.

John was the reason that his muscles were sore, stretched, pleasantly over-taxed. John was the reason that he was sticky, filthy, wonderfully used. John explained why Sherlock Holmes was calm, sated...dare he say foolishly happy?

This had been their first night together as a couple, as a family. Sherlock had never thought that he'd be part of a couple…let alone a family. He'd never even thought that he'd be happy.

Sherlock stretched out a long arm. No John. The sheets were just barely warm.

His happiness was measurably diminished.

Only moments ago, John had been right next to him. Actually, John had been draped over the World's Only Consulting Detective in boneless, semiconscious post-coital bliss.

The flat was quiet. Too quiet. He stared at the clock, which read 03:12.

What? The detective bolted upright.

Impossible. How could it be 03:12...now 03:13. Sherlock Holmes did not drift off to sleep for nearly four hours when he had slept for nearly six hours the night before.

But more importantly, where was John? Off to the loo? Sherlock got up, dragging the sheet around himself, forming a sloppy, impromptu toga. He padded down the short hall to the very empty loo.

Where...Surely John wasn't having second thoughts.

Of course John was having second thoughts.

Who wouldn't have second thoughts about sleeping with a sociopath? How could he expect John to develop a relationship with the man who had faked his own death...for two years...breaking John's heart. Any reasonable man would have second thoughts (and third and fourth thoughts) about living with a consulting detective, who would undoubtedly expose John and his daughter to danger through his cases and his many enemies...not to mention Sherlock's experiments, which were clearly a safety hazard.

Sherlock strode past the empty bathroom, into the dark vacant kitchen and peered into the John-less sitting room.

Of course John had had second thoughts. He'd probably gone running back to Mary.

'It would seem that a dangerous sociopathic part-time assassin has been deemed better and probably safer, than a dangerous, sociopathic, part-time consulting detective,' thought Sherlock sadly.

Besides, Mary was female and Sherlock was male. Even though John was a natural bottom, who seemed to relish the various forms of homosexual intercourse which they had sampled in the past eighteen hours, John would be more comfortable maintaining his heterosexual stereotype. Apparently John was even willing to suffer Mary's abuse.

Well, Sherlock would not allow that abuse to continue, and he stormed back into the bedroom...the sheet trailing behind him.

He stopped at the sight of the rumpled bed. "This was supposed to have been our bedroom,' he thought wistfully.

Then he angrily brushed that thought aside, because it didn't matter. John required protection. Even if John chose Mary over Sherlock, Sherlock would ensure that the abuse would stop. Now.

He looked for clothes. He would talk with Mary, in no uncertain terms, but not in a sheet...well, why not in a sheet? What did clothing matter, in comparison to John and Elizabeth's safety.

He heard a noise...a soft whimper and some whispers...John. But John sounded distant and hoarse, upset. The sounds came... from a device somewhere in the room…Why would someone place a radio in the room broadcasting John and Elizabeth?

Because John and his daughter had been kidnapped! And the kidnappers had left the radio to alert Sherlock to their heinous crime.

He switched on the light, and then turned back and forth, frantically looking for the radio.

'But how? How had the kidnappers reached John and the baby without waking me?' he wondered, while looking for clues.

'Oh. Oh. Oh, yes. The fiends probably drugged our tea, thus explaining their ability to sneak into 221b and explaining my un-natural somnolence.'

He searched found the radio device under John's pants, which had been carelessly discarded during their last coupling.

He could faintly hear John bravely reassuring his daughter, even though the doctor was undoubtedly terrified by the kidnappers. The sounds of his dear doctor emanated from the nefarious device, which sat on the nightstand. He bent to examine it. There was no note. The radio was blue and white. It had a rabbit decal on it. It was a baby monitor.

Oh.

Oh.

Baby monitor.

The monitor, which, relayed sounds from the baby's bedroom to John's bedroom. John had patiently explained this after Elizabeth came home from the hospital. The data had been filed away to be deleted.

Whatever.

Of course, the logical explanation for John's absence from Sherlock's bed was that Elizabeth must have woken up, and John was upstairs caring for her. Obvious.

The World's Only Consulting Detective dragged his hand through his unruly curls as he made his slow, dissatisfied, shuffling way back to the sitting room.

There were no kidnappers. Obvious.

John couldn't have run back to Mary, because she was on a plane headed to Eastern Europe. Obvious.

Perhaps, John wouldn't even have second thoughts. Maybe.

Sherlock shook his head at his feeble mental functioning.

'Mycroft warned me that this would happen,' thought the detective with a sour, almost Mycroft-ish look, 'He warned me that sentiment is detrimental to logical thinking. The recent and repeated sexual intercourse between me and my blogger must have addled my brain. We shall have to forego all further intimacy if I am to retain my unparalleled mental acuity .'

Sherlock fell back into his chair, deeply disappointed. He didn't want to give up further sexual relations with John. He liked having sexual relations with John. He really, liked having his blogger stretched out underneath him writhing with pleasure and passion. He particularly liked burying himself deep inside the man he loved.

There had to be some other solution.

Overhead, Elizabeth grizzled half-heartedly. The creaking sound indicated that John was utilizing the rocking chair, which Mycroft had delivered, after making sneering comments about Sherlock's goldfish. Surprisingly, John had almost immediately understood that he was the goldfish in question. Not surprisingly, he had wanted to punch Mycroft, and for some bizarre reason, Sherlock as well. Then, suppressing his violent tendencies, John had resolved to 'get some air'. Fortuitously, Mrs. Hudson's well-timed arrival with Miss Elizabeth Shirley Watson had prevented John's furious departure.

Once everyone had left, and Elizabeth had been put to bed in her cot (also provided by Mycroft, but without the sneering), Sherlock and John had participated in the clichéd but immensly satisfying couple's ritual of Make-up Sex. Sherlock really, really liked Make-up Sex and did not want to forego that pleasure.

Which returned Sherlock back to the original problem. How to have sex, while not interfering with the genius of the World's Only Consulting Detective?

Sherlock assumed his thinking pose while John croaked out some tuneless prattle, no doubt a mind-numbing lullaby. The detective resolved to stop that nonsense as soon as possible, before it permanently damaged Elizabeth's developing nervous system.

'Lullabies are idiotic,' thought Sherlock with a sneer. 'What on earth would Elizabeth do with a mockingbird or a mirror?'

'Well a mirror of course has its uses, but that's a moot point; John would never let the baby hold a mirror, due to safety concerns. But a mockingbird? An infant had no use at all for a songbird. It would be dangerous for both the baby and the bird and highly unsanitary. It was doubly ridiculous, because mockingbirds were not even indigenous to Britain. Oh, wait. It was hard to determine with John's hoarse voice, but this seemed to be a new melody. Well, when I say melody...what the devil is a baby bunting? Are we back to birds? How predictable. How dull.'

'Predictable...predictable?'

'Yes! Once more John's idiocy leads me to the light!' thought the detective.

'Perhaps...perhaps we could schedule sex on a predictable basis, planning around cases. The very predictability of it would lead to less mental degredation. And if we avoid sex during cases, then a tiny, temporary loss of perfect mental functioning during sex would be tolerable.'

The genius grinned proudly.

'This is an excellent idea! The sex interludes would be akin to sex holidays, which is perfect, because John likes sex holidays. It would be a win-win as Gavin likes to say.'

The detective's fingers drummed on the arm of the chair, trying to decide how soon to schedule the first sex holiday, then a horrible thought occurred.

Elizabeth had been fed immediately prior to the last round of sex, in which John demonstrated that even a natural bottom could top, and do it really well...but that was not important, well, it wasn't important now. It would obviously be useful during their upcoming sex holiday.

But if Elizabeth was awake and crying in the middle of the night, then something was wrong; she must be ill.

Sherlock ran up the steps to John's old room, now Elizabeth's room, her newly painted blue room, (not pink like Mary had demanded.)

He looked into the blue room, which was illuminated by a glowing rabbit light fixture. John held the small infant close over his heart, as he rocked in the large wooden rocker. He looked tired, but not overly concerned. Unlike the time when Elizabeth was throwing up all her formula, and Doctor Watson had terrorized the other doctors in the A and E, until Sherlock arrived to terrorize the other doctors for John. Luckily, the problem had been solved by a switch to another formula...

The point being, John did not have that crazed, rabid my-daughter-is-sick and somebody-better-fix-it-now look on his face. So probably not sick then.

He studied his blogger and love of his life. Truth be told, his blogger looked downright frumpy. John's hair stuck up, as if he were a greying, blond hedgehog. He was un-shaven, unkempt, wearing a pair of Sherlock's too big pajama bottoms and Sherlock's oldest, well-worn dressing gown. The circles under the drowsing doctor's eyes were much too dark and his worry lines much too deep.

Really, the whole Mary debacle, on top of caring for a new baby, on top of extra hours at the clinic had been too much for John Watson. The Magnussen and Moriarty cases which barely predated Elizabeth's exciting arrival on the world stage probably hadn't helped John's peace of mind. Definitely didn't help.

Yet, in spite his hedgehog hair, scruff and wrinkles, John Watson was easily the most beautiful person Sherlock had ever seen; he wanted to take John now. Right now. Especially since it was Sherlock's turn to top again, and he had an idea for an experiment, which John would initially refuse and then reluctantly agree to before gratefully acknowledging how wonderful it had been.

Then the sheet-clad detective frowned, 'This is a bit not good. If we have sex again, then I will have to count it as part of a scheduled sex holiday,' worried Sherlock. 'Which is absurd, because we just had sex, all over the flat. But if I make one exception, it will negate the entire program. Clearly, I should wait, at least until I make a calendar.'

Sherlock hated waiting.

''This is preposterous. I am a genius. Surely I can manage sex AND mind-work...hmmmm…Normally, I would simply delete distractions, however I refuse to ever delete John. Besides, I tried once, and he is undeletable...BUT, I could enlarge John's annex, making more room to store memories away until their presence is required. It will be John's boudoir, decorated in opulent blue and gold, quite unlike the camouflage design prevalent in most of his annex, and I will store our more intimate moments in there after each instance. That way, they will not interfere with clear thinking.' The tall brunet smirked. 'Now every day can be a sex holiday. Every day...except when we're on a case, obviously... Well, that stricture is unnecessary on the simple, waste-my-time cases that Gavin keeps yammering on about. Every day will be a sex holiday, except when we're on important cases...except when we're on cases over a...four. No, over a five.'

'No. No, no, no, cases under five-unlimited sex. Fives and sixes-limited sex on an as need basis. Cases seven and above-no sex, except in a dire emergency or during one of those long drawn out cases, when John forces me to slow down my brain by eating anyway. After the mind-numbing effects following the consumption of a sandwich, sex will hardly have any additional adverse effect on my genius.'

This plan was execllent. And it was proof that his mind was once more functioning properly, in spite of the drugged tea. Sherlock sighed happily.

John startled at the sound of Sherlock's sigh.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" said John in a loud whisper, "You startled me!"

"I was merely making some plans."

"Oh?" murmured John, "Did you need my help?"

"No, of course not; they don't concern you at all," said the brunet, carefully modulating the volume of his voice as he was taught by John, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Gavin, Molly...well, everyone really. "Actually, they concern you...a little... but your input is not required. Now, what's wrong? Is Elizabeth ill?"

John smiled gently, "No, not at all." He yawned hugely. "She just had a very messy nappy, and then she decided that she needed a bottle. Then, she had a bit of gas..."

"But fussing could be the first sign of infection or..."

"Or it could just be gas," said John casting a doctor-knows-best look at Sherlock.

'As if John hadn't panicked after Elizabeth spent half a day vomiting. As if John hadn't demanded x-rays and CT scans. As if John I-am-a-Saint Watson hadn't made a doctor cry and startled a nurse into standing at attention, while he delivered orders,' thought Sherlock. 'Of course, I made two nurses and two doctors and a lab tech cry...and I got the specialist to see Elizabeth immediately by mentioning his affair with the radiologist. Best not to mention that right now.'

"Does she do this...often?"

"You mean the gas? It happens, but not every night."

"You mean she often wakes up at night?"

"Nooo," said John pursing his lips. "I mean yes, I mean...she wakes up every night to feed."

"Mary said that Elizabeth slept through the night," muttered the detective frowning.

"Mary, lied a lot, remember? Besides," grumbled John. "M'not even sure she heard Lizzy cry at night. Mary was always real tired, I guess that's to be expected what with her lovers and moonlighting as an assassin and all."

After knowing John for several years, Sherlock had begun to learn the meaning of discretion, although he only applied it to John. So Sherlock took the unusual step of remaining silent, twice in as many minutes.

John took a couple cleansing breaths, apparently trying to move past his angry resentment over his soon-to-be ex-wife. Then he relaxed.

'John seems to be getting over Mary faster than he got over Sarah, proving yet again that I mean more to John than all of those interloping females combined,' thought the smug detective. Sherlock continued to practice discretion. He refrained from crowing in delight, partly because it might irritate John, but primarily because everyone had impressed upon him the Cardinal Rule of Infant Care: Let sleeping babies lie.

He yawned and considered his own weariness, which was undoubtedly caused by the drugged tea. And because of the drugged tea, his mind was ever so slightly sluggish, which made it difficult to deduce who actually had drugged the tea. It was all a bit circuitous.

Of course, he suspected Mycroft that Mycroft had drugged the tea, because Mycroft would naturally be jealous of Sherlock's loyal, loving and very sexy goldfish.

'Mycroft will turn positively green with envy when he learns about our sex holidays,' thought Sherlock.

His smug self satisfaction, coupled with the drugged tea, kept him from attending to what John was saying. Fortunately, he tuned back in to his blogger's discourse just in time.

"...so even though Lizzy is sleeping for longer periods, perhaps it would be better if we Watsons moved into our own flat."

'No, no, no!' thought Sherlock. 'You cannot leave me!'

"No, that will not be necessary," said Sherlock quickly.

Then John gave him that sad, almost-but-not-quite tremulous smile that fooled precisely no one.

The taller man sagged with relief. John didn't want to leave. The doctor was just confused, which was not unusual for John, especially in the middle of the night.

"Nonsense, her middle-of-the-night meals will be no inconvenience to me, for, as you know, I require little sleep," he said, toning down his baritone, so as not to alarm the almost, but-not-quite, sleeping baby. "Indeed, it will be a benefit to you since you are clearly not getting sufficient sleep."

"I'm fine," said John stoutly.

"You are haggard," countered Sherlock.

Somehow John's face fell even further. He now had more wrinkles than a Shar-pei.

'Now what's wrong?' wondered Sherlock.

"Now what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing! I'm fine!" said John almost, but-not-quite to the squeaking stage.

'Liar,' thought the detective. 'It's the word haggard. He's insecure about his looks again, which is stupid since he's incredibly handsome…'

"You are lying and lying badly, as usual," said Sherlock. "I upset you. Yes, you are haggard from lack of sleep and worry, but you are nonetheless handsome and eminently desirable. Indeed, I was prepared to ravish you with a new twist…"

"Sherlock, it's all been quite fantastic...the um...sex, I mean. But, if you must know, I'm a bit sore, so…um, maybe you could hold that thought for awhile?"

Sherlock frowned, "For how long?"

"Ummm. 'Til tonight…maybe."

"Hmmm, that would be acceptable…" murmured Sherlock. The he spoke with more energy, "In fact, that will give me time to make preparations, and it will give you time to sleep up."

"Speaking of sleeping," said John the Shar-pei pup wearing his serious look. "Sherlock, I appreciate your offer to let us stay here, but well...I don't want us to be any bother."

"Idiot," said Sherlock irritably. "You could never be a bother..."

"That's not what you said last week when I stopped the wrong bellboy in the Falstaff case."

"Bah!" grumbled the detective. "You were being an unobservant idiot. You did not observe the missing button. But you were not a bother. Neither you nor your daughter will ever be a bother to me."

John blinked, clearly getting teary-eyed from exhaustion and his chronic, recurring sentimentality.

He gave Sherlock a slightly watery smile, then looked at the downy-headed, rosy-cheeked baby in his arms. "See, she's already fallen back to sleep," said John, apropos of nothing.

'Changing the subject. Classic John Watson deflecting maneuver.'

The deflecting doctor placed a whisper of a kiss on the baby's head, and started to rise awkwardly, clearly stiff.

'Apparently, even natural bottoms do become sore after all,' thought the resident genius. 'And even former army doctors can become over-worked, over-tired and over-wrought.'

The younger man helped lift his blogger by one elbow, earning himself the patented I-can-do-it-myself John Watson glare. Nothing daunted, Sherlock released John's arm, only to gently extract the sleeping infant from her father's arms.

"Sherlock," sputtered John angrily, but quietly, " if you wake that baby..."

"I will not wake her," whispered Sherlock, holding the bundle of blankets close to his chest. "and if I do, I will deal with it."

The scruffy-looking blond dithered, shifting from one foot to another.

"John, you and Mrs. Hudson have given me numerous lessons on the care and feeding of human infants. I believe I can handle it."

The human infant in question sucked on her dummy, resolutely not sleeping yet not opening her eyes. Dwarfed by her godfather's long limbs and large hands, she nuzzled her head against his chest.

"Yes," said John hesitantly. "Yes, of course, you can handle it. Of course you can..." His voice trailed off and he dry scrubbed his face with both hands. "I'm just...I guess I'm just tired. Really tired and..."

"Then perhaps you should go back to bed and leave us to manage on our own."

John blinked, a scruffy, blond owl in a faded blue, too-long dressing gown.

"Still…I don't want you to think that you have to mind Lizzy for me," said John quietly. "I don't expect you..."

"Well maybe you should expect my help," whispered Sherlock sharply. "Maybe it's about time that you realized that I would do literally anything for you."

John blinked again, his eyes filled to the brim, but he resolutely held them back.

The Watsons were nothing if not resolute, that is to say, stubborn. Clearly, John was now overwhelmed by sentiment and required attention, which he would no doubt stubbornly refuse.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the stubbornness of Watsons, and went to lay Elizabeth in her cot. Naturally, she stubbornly opened her eyes before her back touched the cot. She then perfectly mimicked her father's tear-filled look.

John twisted his head back and forth, as if that would force his emotions out of the room. "I think," said the doctor, with his fake I'm-all-right smile, "I think, she just wants to be held."

Both Watsons are now over tired and teary-eyed, noted Sherlock. He felt a bit overwhelmed at the thought of two people depending on him, even though he was a high-functioning sociopath, known far and wide for his lack of empathy and caring.

What the devil should he do with his Watsons?

Then the doctor's words echoed through the John Watson annex of the mind palace, "I think she just wants to be held," John had said, 'thus satisfying a typical human's need for comfort through touch, warmth and close proximity,' finished Sherlock. 'Elizabeth is fine as long as she is held. And no doubt, John will respond positively to being held too.'

"Like father, like daughter," murmured Sherlock.

The detective easily cradled Elizabeth in one arm, while taking hold of his doctor's hand and leading him out the door.

"Wait, where're we going?" asked John, inevitably following Sherlock Holmes, even as he stubbornly questioned everything. "Shouldn't we get that empty bottle and wash it? And what d'you mean like father, like daughter?" John was forced to talk to the silent detective's back. "No, really, what does that even mean..."

John did not receive an answer.

He did find himself back in bed, covers drawn up and held close to his detective's side. Baby Elizabeth was content in her godfather's other arm, as he stretched his long legs under the blanket and slowly relaxed backwards into the headboard.

Within minutes, the two Watsons were asleep, snuggled safely into the Man who Loved Them Most in the World. Which is far better title than the World's Only Consulting Detective, thought Sherlock…not that he'd ever admit that to anyone.

Sherlock Holmes was also content, possibly for the first time in his adult life. He smiled benignly at John's dirty blond head and Elizabeth's white-blond fuzz, each one nestled on one of his shoulders.

Sherlock had deduced the solution to his Watsons' problems, although he had required a spark from his conductor of light.

Seemingly distraught, father and daughter had only needed to be held by the man that they both seemed to love.

'And isn't that astonishing,' thought Sherlock with a proud smirk at his small family, 'BOTH Watsons love me. Mummy will be over the moon...and Mycroft will be so jealous.'

Elizabeth snuffled, and worked her dummy; John drew closer, rubbing his face into his lover's shoulder with a little snort. 'Like father, like daughter indeed.'

'And now I can concentrate on the mystery of the drugged tea... ... ...Although I suppose it is remotely possible that the tea was not drugged after all. But then why on earth would I have slept for four whole hours after sleeping nearly six hours the night before…'

A/N I started Many Returns so that I could write down the ridiculous Johnlock fluff, which fills my brain but which doesn't belong in some of my other fics. Well, the other fics will probably have some fluff too, because apparently I cannot not write stories that are totally fluffless or humorless. But maybe I can limit the fluff in those more serious stories. (LOL sendai writing a serious story? LOL. LOL. Like that will ever happen.) We'll just say that they are slightly less fluffy stories. Besides, I wanted to try parent!lock.

(Speaking of other fics. The piratical fics and Into the Fire are not actually forgotten and Cyborg will be updated this week.)

So anyway, Many Returns will be the future home of various one shots centering around Sherlock and John's new life as a normal family (HA! Normal? As if?).

Well, the stories will be about Sherlock, John and their daughter. There will probably be disgusting amounts of fluff. I doubt that their lives will be normal.

I will publish as the whim hits me or the plot bunnies bite. The stories may not be in chronological order but since I am OCD-ish, it probably will be in chronological order.

As always, they'll be rated M for safety although some of them won't really need the M at all.

Now that the author's note is nearly as long as the story, let me finish by saying:

Thank you for reading. Please leave reviews, critiques and suggestions. I would in fact be happy to entertain suggestions but make no promises. It's all up to the plot bunnies and my muse, who is very capricious. BUT I do very much love hearing from you about anything that strikes your fancy, and I love the precious friends that I have made through fanfic (I hope you know who you are) :D

Many thanks to Old Ping Hai who graciously found edited this story, which was littered with gratuitous commas and many ridiculous errors.

Oops, I almost forgot the ritual disclaimer, because otherwise you might think I am an authorized agent of the BBC's production of Sherlock or else a long, lost heir to the ACD estate. LOL.

BUT SURPRISE!

I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes or anything related to ACD's great legacy or to the modern BBC version of SHERLOCK.

:D :D :D :D :D