Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

Inspired by: "Those Voices" from A Very Potter Sequel.

November 23rd, 1893

It is a dreamland, one he has visited many times in the past several months. Powerful English oak trees border a wide meadow, totally bereft of farms, sheep, or assorted life.

That is, except for her. Her, standing in the center of it all, the sun shining down on her gloriously.

Red-gold hair flies around her smiling face. Her dress floats on the breeze as well, loose and blue, bringing out her lively eyes. Her lips are rosy pink, no longer the wretched blood red. She reaches for him, for their son. William bounces by him suddenly, forgetting his father and running to the lovely woman waiting for them. He appears a little older, old enough to be bounding off without his father's aid.

The little boy jumps into her arms, laughing wildly as she twirls him about. The two look so happy and carefree, something he hasn't been in a very long time. Setting the boy down, the look on her face turns to one of longing, as if she'd wished to hold the little one for much longer. The child lumbers out of their sight, and slowly she turns back towards her husband.

"Come, my love, it's so beautiful here," she tells him, and for a split second, he can feel her arms wrapping around him.

"WATSON!"

The good doctor was jerked from his reverie, jumping nearly out of his chair. His eyes flew around the room, wondering briefly who had called him. Then, remembering his location, he groaned. He was back in London, in bitter winter, with carriages and grand buildings and people hardened by anger and destitution in varying degrees.

"Yes, Holmes?" he asked, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. For the past three nights he'd been laboring over patients at Bart's, as well as attending his own son during the day. Willy had a cold, but his nanny absolutely refused to touch him, and so John picked up the slack when she simply walked out of the house. The woman had complained daily of her duties, and having a less-than-healthy child to watch over was the final straw for her, evidently. She hadn't been back since, and poor Watson was at his wit's end.

"I was simply wondering," Sherlock Holmes, his good friend and famed detective, stated, "if you would kindly make sure your offspring keeps his body out of my newspaper stacks."

Holmes held the sick little boy by his suspenders, half dangling William in the air. Watson winced and extended his hands out, gathering the child into his arms. At nearly two years of age, the boy was becoming a handful; it was no coincidence that his name was William Sherlock. Having two Sherlocks in the same vicinity equaled mounds of trouble.

Especially since one of them had just returned from the grave last summer. Holmes, as it turned out, had done much thinking and a small bit of changing in that time; death had an odd way of reshuffling his priorities. He'd traveled the world, destroyed one of the greatest enemies known to the Empire, and… One of the changes walked into the room at that moment as if she knew she was being thought about. Bearing a bowl of soup for the lad and straightening her dress, she shook her head at her husband's organizational worries.

"It's hardly his fault, Sherlock. Your newspaper stacks are everywhere," Madeline said, kissing Holmes' cheek and setting the bowl on the end table near the doctor's chair. Curiously, Watson watched the wife of his friend move through the environment liked she'd lived there her whole life, rather than for the past few weeks. It was so odd, seeing how this woman, who'd been run down by a carriage right in front of 221B Baker Street and therefore became the detective's client two years ago, had managed to snare the almost nonexistent heart of the coldest man in Britain.

But he would hardly begrudge Holmes this one bit of seeming normalcy. For as eccentric as the sleuth was, his new bride was able to keep up quite well in her own way. Inquisitive to a fault, and a fiery temper that could flare at any given moment, the widow-turned-wife was a blaze in the darkness of Holmes' world at the end of a case.

And thankfully, she was not Irene Adler. That was a point that Watson was more and more grateful for each passing day. Heaven only knew what would become of Holmes had the American temptress gotten a permanent hold on him…

"Watson? John?" she cut through the doctor's thoughts, narrowing her bright green eyes in concern. Snapping back to awareness, he silently started feeding his son and flashed a brittle grin at his compatriots. Sometimes he just couldn't pay attention, usually because he was thinking of Mary.

Mary Watson…beloved wife and mother, dead for only six months. It felt like an eternity to John. He never thought he could love so much in his life, and he never thought he could lose that love so quickly. They would've had their three year anniversary in the coming February. It hurt so much some days, his heart would almost literally cry out in pain. It was tough to live with, and made paying mind to the world turning around him that much more difficult.

However, his thoughts started to turn back suddenly onto an event several days prior, to that helpful girl who'd wrangled his son in and helped him back onto his feet. Her black eyes were dancing in his memory…

The woman had hair black as night, eyes dark as coal, and an oval face that was ruddy red. She did not look down or away; she looked him straight in the eye, as she was nearly as tall as him…

Extending her hand towards John, she crowed, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister…?"

Scolding himself for his loss of manners, Watson took her hand and shook it.

"Doctor. Doctor John Watson."

She grinned. "Ah, Doctor Watson. I'm Miss Bayard. I think your son will stick by you now."

"Thank you, again."

Flicking her dark hair over her shoulder, she inclined her head in welcome. Dropping him a rapid curtsy, she bid him farewell and melted into the crowds lining the sidewalks. Watching her go, Watson felt himself release a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Pretty girl, Papa," William piped up…

John watched the dark head of the woman bob off into the distance, a grin creeping unbeknownst onto his lips.

"Yes, Willy, very pretty."

Watson shook his head. No sense dwelling on her; there were other matters to attend to.

"I apologize. With William being sick and working harder than ever to keep the rent at Cavendish Place, I've not had much sleep," he confessed, his blue eyes flicking tiredly across the faces of his friends. He hated talking about his trivial irregularities in his livelihood, but he knew that they could see something was very off about him. It was only a matter of time before he would have to sell his journals for sustenance and not simply pleasure. For his part, Holmes tapped his pipe against the mantelpiece and snorted.

"I'd imagine so, given the steep prices over on that street."

"Not to mention the fact that you summoned me at two in the morning to track down some jewelry thief as well."

Holmes shrugged. "Not just a jewelry thief. He was the most dangerous con artist this side of Hanover Square."

Watson rolled his eyes, not deigning to respond to him. "I am so sorry that I had to foist William on you again, Madeline."

She grinned. "I hardly mind watching him. The only trouble is getting him to fall asleep again. He is so filled with questions about his father and his whereabouts that it's almost impossible for him to slumber until you return."

"Aye, he's quite the character," John admitted, pressing his handkerchief against the boy's nose just as he reared back to sneeze. Holmes winced slightly; though William was his "nephew", having children in the flat was still an entirely new experience for him.

"Perhaps you should hold some interviews for a new nanny, John," Madeline murmured, smoothing down her skirt nonchalantly. Both the older men turned to look at her fully, Sherlock's lips twisting into a smirk. "What?"

"I was going to recommend that course of action myself," the detective said, "but your stance and manner conveys that you've not only taken the liberty of broaching this subject, you've also got a few young ladies lined up for the very act."

"You've been reading the inquiries again, haven't you?" she replied, quirking up an eyebrow.

"I would be remiss if I did not read the whole newspaper, my dear."

"Excuse me," Watson crowed, waving his hand to get their attention. "I thank you for going to the trouble, Mrs. Holmes, but I am barely awake as it is. How can I possibly review a person's credentials at such a time? And who will watch William during the process? I cannot impose on you again."

"Oh, it won't be me you'll be imposing upon. Sherlock can keep an eye on the child, just for an hour or two," she told him, her harsh glance hushing her husband up immediately. "I will be helping you choose the caretaker, don't you worry."

John huffed, shaking his head and slapping his face. "Then we must get back to the house with all haste, if I must meet with these women."

Madeline pushed him back down into the seat just as he started to rise.

"The ad I sent to the newspaper has instructed the ladies to come here. That way, they will not have to see the sorry state your home is in at the moment, and we can make sure both William and Sherlock don't do much property damage."

"I am no child, wife, and therefore need not be watched like one," Holmes reprimanded her, just as the spark from the flame he'd ignited lit his smoking jacket on fire. Calmly he slapped it out, and carefully stared just above the amused faces of his best friend and Madeline.

"Whatever you say, my love," she cooed sarcastically; pet names were only used in jest in the Holmes household. Sherlock merely picked young William out of his father lap and walked out, all the while telling the lad that they were to go and join the gypsies performing on Tudor Lane. They would be far away from ludicrous women and their superiority complexes.

Watson grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. The day was not shaping up to be what he wished it to be.

xXxXxXx

"Thank you, Miss Scott, Dr. Watson will be sure to contact you, should we require your services," Madeline crowed wearily, waving away the tenth interviewee. The portly old lady saw her own way out, bobbing a short curtsy and cutting a pert sneer at John. He raised his eyebrow, conveying his full feeling in that one small gesture. Sighing, Mrs. Holmes crossed yet another name off the list. "And here I thought Sherlock was overly specific on details."

"What? I simply wanted to know her background, you can hardly censure me for that," Watson defended himself, crossing his arms. The woman seated to his left snorted.

"Oh yes…all the way back to her great-grandfather's occupation, my friend. I'm sure that has some bearing on her abilities to keep an eye on a two-year-old."

He shrugged, not chagrined in the least. "She was proud enough to offer that up, anyway…"

Shuffling through the pile of credentials left on the coffee table, Madeline pressed on, "And what of the nine other ladies you have so clearly rejected?"

As he slowly raised his hand, she groaned inwardly; she should've known better than to give him an opening…

"Four are sufferers of joint pain and cannot follow after a child for too long. Three admitted to family members having succumbed to several diseases and therefore could be carriers, and two were far more interested in the fact that I am a doctor and not that I have a son to look after," he replied systematically, ticking the ladies off one by one on his fingers. "William needs to come first."

This was his son William, borne of his beloved Mary, after all. He was absolutely precious, simply because he was partly hers. And those women, those fawning girls more like, did not understand that.

"Well," Mrs. Holmes dared venture, "those last two you mentioned may not be so bad. If they are infatuated enough with you, they may hold your son as incredibly dear since he is of your blood."

The look he flashed her showed her he was less than pleased, and she merely held up a hand to indicate that she got the message clearly.

"Sorry."

"And rightly so," John quipped, giving her a toothy grin just as the door flew open. Inwardly preparing for another horrendous interview, Watson choked on his own breath when he saw who'd come in.

"Hullo, I apologize for my tardiness," purred a jarring voice, dark hair obscuring her face as she dropped into a low curtsy. As she rose up, the doctor found himself staring into the black eyes of his memory. "I'm Victoria Bayard. I am here to apply for the nanny position offered."

Carefully, Watson schooled his expression and proffered his hand. "Pleasure to see you again, Miss Bayard."

She accepted his hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Likewise, Doctor."

Madeline's eyebrows jumped up, and her smile turned positively devious. "You two have met before?"

"Aye, I had helped secure his child by his side not too long ago," Victoria replied, her smile contracting slightly. "And you are, madam?"

"Mrs. Madeline Holmes. The good doctor asked for my help to choose his nanny. Now, as the advert stated, we require a list of previous employers and such."

Eagerly Miss Bayard produced her résumé, engaging the lady in conversation as to what her specific duties would be and her smile returning in full force. Watson contributed little, like with the other candidates, and instead perused her job listings. She'd been a governess for several years, he could see, despite a four year gap where the listing was blank.

"How old are you, Miss Bayard?" he cut in out of the blue. Inclining her head towards him, she smirked.

"A lady never reveals her age, doctor. I would like to think of myself as a proper lady at least in that respect."

He was caught between frowning and grinning. He had hoped she would be more forthright with her potential employer, but the impertinence of her answer was intriguing.

"Family history, then? Can you tell me that?"

She hesitated. "Medical or vocational?"

"Both, preferably." A wince surfaced on his face, Madeline noticed; at least he was aware of how picky he was being.

"Other than common colds and fevers, my family has been of healthy stock. Father and forefathers have been fisherman and dockworkers for seven generations, brother enlisted in the navy some time ago before he was wounded in battle and sent home," she told him briskly, coldness invading her tone. It seemed she had hoped for a warmer reception from the man she'd helped two weeks ago. "Oh, and my mother currently has a broken leg on the mend. I'm sure you wanted to know that too, sir."

The wince became more pronounced. "Thank you for your information, Miss Bayard."

Victoria inclined her head again, the cheerfulness dripping off her face. Tense silence followed, the doctor and potential employee sizing each other up while Mrs. Holmes sat to the side. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two, and she squirmed uncomfortably. She thought of the arguments she had with Sherlock, and briefly wondered if they were as awkward to be around.

Gently, Madeline broke the quiet. "We will contact you if-"

"You're hired, Miss Bayard," John interrupted, standing up and determinedly discarding his cane. For some odd reason, he wanted to show this woman that he could make do without the instrument, that he was strong enough and capable enough to do so. To show how powerful he could be. As she rose from her chair, her eyeline only a few inches below his, he could see the challenge he'd posed reflecting in her black irises.

"I thank you, sir. I will be at Cavendish place on the morrow," she murmured, dipping another curtsy.

"Very good. Be there by nine o'clock," he instructed, nodding his farewell to her. Without another word, she inclined her head towards Madeline and swept out the door, the wooden portal thumping in her wake. Watson felt himself deflating after she'd left, and he looked askance at Mrs. Holmes' wide grin.

"What?"

She stood then, giggling under her breath. "I think I am going to like this woman already. I simply cannot wait until Sherlock meets her."

This day was definitely not what Doctor Watson expected.

Author's note: Yes! It's the sequel of Blood Bond, finally! I would've posted sooner, but what with moving into a new apartment, scrambling to complete some art projects and needing a general break from writing, it's been pretty busy in my life. But I was hit with inspiration, and so I had to start writing again.

This will be more about Watson, but Madeline and of course Sherlock will not be thrust into the obscurity of the background. And since it is about Watson, this will be a bit more of a challenge to write, because I'm not used to writing him. Oh well…hope you've enjoyed this first chapter, please review, and I will see you guys for the next chapter!