John Watson, M.D., thought his life to be just about perfect. He had a beautiful fiance, an excellent sex life, a satisfying job, and a fun hobby.

His best friend had a beautiful wife, a gorgeous daughter, and fine professional career.

In John's opinion, life couldn't get much better. When he added in the fact that he and Mary had a wedding planned for next weekend … well, that was just cream on strawberries. All he was in charge of was showing up, and planning the honeymoon. He had in his possession two cruise tickets to Italy. Well, actually, his friend Irene had them. She thought they'd be safer in her home safe then on his person, at least until after the wedding.

She was probably right. Irene Holmes often was.

He also took her advice and got the all-inclusive package, so that all he and Mary had to worry about while on their honeymoon was how to find their cabin.

Where he planned to spend most of their time, personally. Perhaps creating the next generation of Watsons.

John left the tube station and headed for the street. He turned down the alley near Bart's, on his way to his office.
Then everything went black.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest (and only) consulting detective, examined the contents of his daughter's diaper with the magnifying glass he kept on his person at all times.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Irene asked, cuddling their girl, who was fussing a little bit.

"I am trying to determine what we fed her that led to this seriously smelly mess," Sherlock said. "Her digestive tract can't seriously be outputting this from breast milk."

Irene laughed, soothing Elena by rocking her slightly. "I'm afraid so, Sherlock. It will be some time before she can eat real food and produce less smelly messes."

"Hmmm." Sherlock snapped his glass shut, shoved it back in his pocket, and wrapped the diaper in a plastic bag before shoving it in the diaper bin. "You, my girl, need to regulate your digestive system in a better fashion," he said, waving a finger in his daughter's face. Elena's eyes followed the finger solemnly, and Sherlock couldn't resist; he took her from Irene. Holding her with one hand behind her head and the other one under her now clean-and-fresh bottom, he talked directly to her. "Miss Holmes, I expect a degree of brilliance from you, you know. Your mother is exceedingly clever, and I'm not so bad, so I expect that you shall be the best of both of us."

Elena continued to look at him calmly, as if she knew and agreed with everything he was saying.

Irene sighed. "Please don't set such high expectations for a six-week old infant, Sherlock," she admonished him. "She'll get a complex before she can talk."

Sherlock chuckled, the deep sound in his chest making his daughter smile at him. "Look, she's smiling," he said. "She knows I'm right about how clever she is."

"No, Sherlock, she's not smiling, that's gas." Elena burped, spitting up on herself and splashing her father in the process. "See?"

"Something more than gas, apparently," Sherlock said calmly, then brought her back over to the changing table, where he laid her in the convex pad on top of it and reached for a burping cloth. "You like getting the best of your father, don't you, lovey?"

Irene watched as Sherlock deftly cleaned the front of Elena's gown, determined it wouldn't do, then changed her into a light romper and tossed his own shirt in the hamper. He competently picked up his child again, tossed her a bit on his shoulder with the burp cloth, and was rewarded with another burp-this time in its rightful place on the cloth. "That ought to do it, I think," Irene commented, as Sherlock tenderly wiped his baby girl's face and handed her back to her mother.

They had established a routine over the past weeks, as Irene had healed and they learned how to care for a newborn. This week marked Elena's actual due date, and as she had been clever enough not to have the usual problems premature babies had-their doctors, Christine and John, foresaw the distinct possibility of premature delivery and had Irene on meds to help Elena's lungs develop more completely-she was thriving. Irene had elected to breastfeed, wanting her daughter to have all the advantages of her immune system, and she also wanted the complete mothering experience. Irene had never thought to have the dearest wish of her heart granted. She'd been told over the years that it would be impossible to have a child of her own.

But the doctors had been wrong. She and Sherlock had made an impossibly beautiful child. And despite complications, Irene had managed to hold Elena in her body just long enough.

With Elena's birth, Irene had become a human feeding machine. Elena's little body couldn't take in much nourishment at a time, so that meant frequent feedings. Which mean frequent diapers. She and Sherlock had developed a routine. They both got up when Elena needed feeding; Irene did the feeding and Sherlock did the changing and burping. Then they all went back to sleep. Irene had put herself on maternity leave indefinitely-her clients could still reach her by phone in a crisis-so the routine worked very well.

Sherlock's clients didn't quite understand the concept of paternity leave, and, at any rate, crimes and investigations wouldn't take a holiday just because he had a new baby he wanted to spend time with. But, then again, Sherlock didn't seem to need as much sleep as the average person. And in the event of a serious investigation requiring all his time and energy, arrangements had been made with Mrs. Hudson to help with baby care.

So far, they'd been lucky. Most the clients had been of the "boring!" and "leave!" sort.

And Irene had news for Sherlock today. Christine had cleared them for sex.

The couple, who hadn't gone more than a week without tearing off each other's clothes since they first started tearing off each other's clothes, had been suffering from the lack of sex since their daughter was born. Irene had healed fairly quickly from what had been a remarkably easy delivery, considering the complications of her pregnancy, and though new parenthood made them both sleepy, the wait for the all-clear from the doctor had been a long one.

Watching a shirtless Sherlock tend his baby girl made Irene hot. She couldn't help it. That the great, brainy man could be so tender, while losing nothing of his intellectual quirks, was a surprise that she continually loved. His well defined pectoral muscles and abs didn't hurt her feelings, either. When added to the electric blue eyes he trained on her as often as possible, well, Irene was feeling a bit deprived.
So part two of her surprise was the arrangement for Mrs. Hudson to babysit for Elena for the evening so that her parents could get reacquainted. Christine suggested using birth control from this point on, so Irene had quietly taken a shot that would prevent pregnancy for six months.

Irene couldn't wait to have her way with her husband.

Still, as she watched Sherlock lay their now-snoozing child in her bassinet, she felt washed with another emotion that she'd too rarely had in her life: love, and security. Her best wish for her daughter was that she never know a life without either of those things, as her mother had.

Sherlock came over to their bed to sit by Irene, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Tired, Woman?" He noted the shadows under her eyes and the paleness of her skin.

"A bit, but I suspect all new parents are. I plan to nap with Elena today as much as possible, because we have plans this evening." Irene said it lightly, but Sherlock's attention was diverted instantly.

"What plans?"

"Mrs. Hudson will babysit for us tonight so that you and I can get reacquainted," Irene smiled as she said it.

"I'm fairly well acquainted with you now," Sherlock said playfully.

"Yes, but I mean...we can have dinner, together, if you'd like." Irene peeked out at him from under her dark lashes, her blue eyes full of mischief.

"Really?" Sherlock looked her over. "You sure you're up to that?"

"It seems I'm very, very hungry."

"Well, then, who am I to refuse a beautiful woman?" Sherlock tipped her head up and kissed her. "I'd love to have dinner with you. Among other things."

"Good. It's settled." Irene looked at their sleeping daughter, then back at Sherlock. "Unless you'd like to have dinner right now. Elena's sleeping … you're here … I'm here …"

"And you're tired," Sherlock said, smiling. "I can wait until tonight, when you're a bit more rested."

Irene leaned forward and purposely let her robe slip off the one shoulder, revealing the top of one of her breasts. "Are you sure? I'm not that tired."

Sherlock's eyes rested on her face, and though he glanced down-he was human, after all-he looked back up into her eyes. He lowered his face to hers, and began to kiss her, slowly.

She responded in kind, content to let heat build between them again. He deepened the kiss, and she hummed with contentment.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson shouted from the common hall. "You've got a visitor. Didn't you hear the bell?"

Sherlock kissed Irene for a full ten seconds longer, hating to let her go.

"Sherlock!"

He rolled his eyes and released his wife. "Fine," he muttered. "But it better be seriously important."

Irene laughed, and she curled up in their bed with a pillow. "If it's boring, come back. If it's not, come back anyway. We could have a quickie while the baby's sleeping."

Sherlock grinned at her, found a shirt, tossed it on, and went out to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson was wringing her hands. "It's Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock. He says it's urgent, or I wouldn't have bothered you."

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson." It's not the end of the world, he thought, it's just Mrs. Hudson. "If he says it's urgent, it's undoubtedly urgent."

Sherlock stepped into the hall. "Come up, Lestrade!"

Lestrade bounded up the stairs. "I hated to disturb you, with the new baby, and all, but I knew you'd want in on this case."

"Oh?"

"It's John. He's been kidnapped."

All of Sherlock's senses honed in on that phrase, and the cheerful, tender father and lover of a moment ago disappeared under the mask of the calculating machine. "Where, when, how? Details."

"On his way to work at Bart's, in the back alley. His briefcase was left behind, papers spilling out. I preserved the scene for you and came as quick as I could."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I'm coming. Let me tell Irene." He strode to his bedroom with purpose, and Irene sat up. One glance at his face told her they would be putting off dinner.

"What is it? What's happened, Sherlock?"

"John's been kidnapped. Lestrade's taking me to the scene. I can give you more details as I have them. I could use your brain."

"It's yours, Sherlock, as you know." Irene glanced at Elena. "I can dress now if you want me to come. We can see if Mrs. Hudson wants to keep Elena for a few hours. She's just been fed, so she ought to be down that long."

Sherlock hesitated, a rare thing for him. If Irene came along and something happened to both of them, Elena would have no parents. But if Irene didn't come along and he missed something, John could pay for it. If Sherlock went alone, with Lestrade …

"Yes, if Mrs. Hudson can watch Elena, I'd like you to come. Bring your revolver. May not need it, but I'd rather be safe."

"I'll be out in a second."

Sherlock grabbed his suit jacket and headed back to the sitting room. "Irene's coming, too. She's got an excellent set of eyes and a clever brain. Mrs. Hudson, could you keep an eye on Elena for us? She should sleep for a few hours right now."

"Of course, of course," Mrs. Hudson gestured to him. "I've got it handled."

"Reset the security when we leave, please," Sherlock said. He didn't need his coat, but he swirled it on anyway, instantly feeling more like the detective. Irene came out their bedroom door as he swirled, and he noted in a glance that she was ready for detective work, in trousers, blouse, jacket and sensible shoes. Her dark red hair was tucked back into a messy bun.

"Ready," she said. "Thanks, Una, for watching Elena."

"Not at all, not at all. Go find John."