It was the middle of August and it was an unusually cold week. Rain and glum and clouds as far as the forecast read.

John sighed and closed the newspaper. He looked up to his companion who was in his morning routine of deep though and concentration. The summer had been relaxed, or rather, as relaxed as it got in 221B. There was a usual array of cases but no word from Moriarty or the high government. Just simple cases for a purge of adrenaline for Sherlock and John.

But the week dragged on. The gloom outside made Londoners want to cozy inside their homes and keep to themselves. There was little trouble or crime or distress, and it drove Sherlock up the wall. He wanted something, anything, to do. Something to puzzle other people and for him to figure out.

This slump of days was shortly ended when the post came in. John sorted through it after his morning paper, zoning out as the bills and credit card offers blurred together. After going through the junk, he stood, and handed Sherlock his stack of mail.

Sherlock was clearly in a different world. He slumped in his chair, eyes closed, and fingertips gently pressed together. John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock."

"Hmph."

"Sherlock, your post," John said again, this time smacking the pile of mail on his roommate's head of curls.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he glared at John, snatching his mail. He sorted through the letters, tossing each bill across his shoulder rapidly. He hardly paid attention until he reached the last letter. The only true letter, hand written. He gazed at the return address in a slight daze.

Sherlocked ripped through the letter, fingers beginning to tremble as he realized what the letter must be but what it could not be. And yet, it was.

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I regret to inform you of the death of Mr. Albert and Mrs. Elizabeth Weather. As you are aware, you are enclosed in Mr. and Mrs. Weather's will. This leaves you with full custody over their daughter, Charlotte Weather. Please expect Charlotte to arrive August 21st…

There was more to read, more details and dates, but the letter fell from his hand, and Sherlock's heart began to race. He stood and stared out the window face frozen in a blank stare.

"What's gotten into you?" John questioned, quirking an eyebrow across the room.

Sherlock turned towards John, his pale skin going even whiter.

"An eleven-year-old girl is coming here in ten days."

"I beg your pardon?" John choked out.

"My goddaughter. She-she's coming to…" Sherlock couldn't finish his thought. His frantic eyes swept across the living room. Their home was full of hazard, risk, weapons, and experiments. It was certainly no place for a child.

"Your goddaughter?" John inquired, aghast. Anyone who trusted Sherlock enough with their own child had to be either equally or more insane than his companion.

"It was a mistake," Sherlock breathed, looking as though he were going into shock. He slunk down the wall and sat with his knees to his chest, eyes still staring into an empty space. "I was eighteen. I-I didn't know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking."

"I wish I'd known a bit about this," John mumbled as the fact of the situation began to plunge him into an icy anxiety.

"Well I didn't expect her parents to die so suddenly!" Sherlock snapped, glaring up at John. "Her only living relative, Elizabeth's aunt Marie, is practically a witch and they never appealed to the idea of their daughter living with her if anything were to happen."

"So… you were the better option?"

"Well, obviously, John. Who else than the great family friend's son?"

"Mycroft?" John questioned further, still unable to wrap his mind around the fact that someone trusted Sherlock with their child.

"I was always Elizabeth's… favorite."

They stared at each other a moment as the situation they were in began to solidify in their minds.

"John, what am I going to do?" Sherlock said, looking more fearful than John had seen him.

"Well, Sherlock, you're going to get ahold of yourself and be the greatest godfather to this girl. She's just lost her parents after all, and she'll need all the love and support she can get. And we're going to give it to her," John said, sounding more confident than he felt.

"Yes. Yes, we, I-I mean, you will be here to help me of course, and Mrs. Hudson and-and I did sign up for this, it will be fine," Sherlock began to rock back and forth as he muttered, looking more and more like a mad man.

"Yes. It will be fine," John assured him. "I'll bunk with you and she can sleep in my room until we figure something else out. Besides, I think you need to work on your children skills."

They looked at each other, mirroring a look of slight amusement and pure terror.