Diificulties

Fingers steepled together, face drawn and pale, Sherlock Holmes sat on the sofa in the living room of 22B Baker Street. John tapped away on his computer, typing up a blog post for their most recent adventure. Apart from the steady clacking of plastic keys, the flat was completely silent. John shot a glance at Sherlock. He had been unusually quiet in the past few days, even for himself, and the doctor was fairly certain he hadn't used the word "bored" in at least three days. The experiments were on hold and though he hadn't eaten, drank, or smoked, he had slapped on another nicotine patch and sat unmoving on the couch in his dressing gown.

"Sherlock?"

"Save the concern please John. I'm fine. I'm thinking."

Sighing, John rolled his eyes.

"All right. Don't mind me. Just looking out for your health. When was the last time you-"

"Slept? Fifty-three hours ago. Once I reach sixty or seventy I'll consider sleeping but for now my brain is functioning perfectly and sleeping would interrupt the process."

"Right."

John typed a few more lines, and after a few mouse clicks and the snap of him closing his laptop, he stood. Straightening his jumper, he looked over at Sherlock.

"Got a date tonight. Might not be back til late."

Sherlock grunted a noncommittal reply and stood as well, meandering over to his violin. Dragging the bow gently across the strings, he began to play. It was nothing in particular really, just following a chord progression, then countering it, jumping scales and it slipped into being some composer John had probably never heard of. Pulling on a coat, John Watson tossed Sherlock a final glance and left the flat.

He had been playing for maybe fifteen minutes when a telltale moan came from the pocket of his dressing gown.

I see John has left.

Sherlock tapped back on the keyboard, violin tucked under one arm.

Date of some kind. Won't be back til late.

-SH

Another moan signaled her reply.

Put the kettle on then.

He resumed his playing and soon heard a window open, then shut. Her boots made soft noises on the floor and he turned, lowering his bow.

"Miss Adler."

"Mr. Holmes," she replied.

It was a long and complicated story which Sherlock preferred not to revisit because of all the deceitful sentiment involved, but he and Irene Adler were not unaccustomed to meeting now and again, whether she was dead or not. He had been dead for awhile, but her death kept her safe and his brother happy so she claimed a new alias and had since reconnected with the consulting detective.

"I have thought about your offer." She chuckled and sauntered into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He hadn't bothered to do so and she knew it.

"Well it's not entirely your decision, but your thoughts are appreciated." Was she being sarcastic or sincere? He wasn't entirely sure.

"I think you're correct. It is certainly an interesting experiment. And the world could use less stupid people. I've already made my contribution so I fail to see what I can to to assist you from this point."

"A few ways, actually."

The kettle began to scream and then clicked itself off. Pouring water into her mug, she stared at him over the steam with wide dark eyes and rosy cheeks from the blustery rain outside.

His eyes flickered over her and though he was certain of at least one of her requests, this was not his area. However, he had his pride and instead of asking her, he raised a single dark eyebrow.

"Money, naturally. Aliases that I can attain for you. A place to live, perhaps."

"All appreciated Mr. Holmes but none of those is what I would like from you."

"Then what is that?"

"A signature, an approval, and to keep this from the good doctor until I deem it necessary."

"Approval for what?"

"Not paternity, Mr. Holmes. You and I both have our enemies and our past lives. I think we need to keep our little experiment so it lives with neither of us. I already have a safe home and a woman picked out to care for the child, I just would like your take on her. After all...this is your child she'll be caring for."

"A nanny?" Sherlock scoffed. "Caring for a child isn't difficult. It needs to be fed, cleaned, and exercised, much like John but hopefully with less complaining."

Her lips thinned by a millimeter or so but he still noted and cataloged her annoyance, not bothering to determine why she was irritated. Pregnant women were irrational, at least he assumed as much. He understood the biology of pregnancy and all the different hormones and chemicals in her brain were certainly not contributing to stability. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"I thought you might care about the well-being of your future son or daughter."

"I do believe you said it was an experiment. We have admitted no sentiment between us and I have no intention to start now."

Irene's lips thinned more and she nodded.

"So in monitoring your experiment in genetics, would you care to know how the child is progressing or will it only interest you after birth?"

"Prenatal development should be monitored of course. And you should breastfeed the child for at least six months. It's better for immune system and brain development."

"We'll discuss that when the time comes."

Sherlock shrugged and went back to his violin.

Barely concealing a snarl, Irene typed a text, finished her tea, and left without a sound. Sherlock pretended not to notice her absence but once the door shut, he allowed his body to relax. It wouldn't do to allow sentiment into the strange relationship with Irene Adler and letting her see even a crack in his shell was a concession he was not willing to make.

In a small, ratty flat on the outskirts of London, barely even within the city limits, a cell phone beeped, alerting its owner to a new message.

It would be long-term, a 5-year minimum.

With an excited smile, Lily Wallace texted back, double-checking her spelling and grammar three times before she hit the 'send' key.

Sounds excellent. When would you like to meet to sign the contract?