Even the loud bubbling from their ancient kettle and the blaring advertisement jingle coming from the television couldn't block out the insistent squeaking flowing from Sherlock's violin. After living with Sherlock for quite a number of months, John could predict the amount of sleep he would receive each night. Unfortunately, that evening had been one in which Sherlock had been pondering their latest case, right at the climax of the situation.

"Four patch problem, John, four!" He had yelled, slamming his bedroom door in a huff. Not too long afterwards, a chorus of twangs had drifted from his bedroom and to the sitting room, where John had been trying to finally relax. The violin had been taken out of Sherlock's cupboard and put to use, high pitched notes swirling around 221b Baker Street.

John rubbed his forehead tiredly and began to make himself a cup of tea, deciding that it would probably be a four hour sleep that night, beginning at three in the morning and ending when he would be awoken at seven, Sherlock pounding on his door and ordering him to get ready so that they could study the crime scene once more.

For one beautiful, much-needed moment, the house fell silent. Sherlock stopped playing, the kettle finished boiling and John had switched off the television. John sighed. Peace at last. Then the silence filled with a strange noise, a muffled sob. At first, with raised eyebrows and pursed lips, John thought it was Sherlock crying. Perhaps this case really was too much for him. No, of course not. Sherlock didn't show emotion.

John quickly realised that the noise was in fact coming from downstairs, and if he strained hard enough, he could deduce that it was coming from right outside their front door. A wailing sound, unlike the wind which was rather floaty and peaceful that night, barely rustling the trees. This sound was very humanlike.

"Sherlock, I think there's someone at the door!" John called, but no reply came from Sherlock's room. With a sharp grunt, John pushed himself off the sofa and padded down the stairs. As he pulled open the door, a rush of cool night air hit his face and he gulped it down, letting it fill his lungs pleasurably. He heard a small gurgle and stopped dead, peering down to his feet.

There, on the doorstep, wrapped in a clean white blanket, was a baby. John's mouth dropped and he just stared down at it, unable to move for a moment. He looked around, studying the street for the owner of the baby, however the street was empty, bathed in a synthetic streetlight glow.

Looking back down at the baby, John let out a hiss of air, his breath visibly rushing from his mouth and evaporating into the night. He shook his head and grudgingly lifted the child into his arms, holding it to his chest where it wriggled comfortably. The doctor could feel it breathing against his ear and he couldn't suppress a small smile. He shut the door behind them, shutting his eyes and wondering for a moment if he was just imagining things. He blinked his eyes open. No, that was definitely a baby. But whose? And how did it happen to arrive at their door? John noticed a slip of paper hidden amongst the folds of the blanket and pulled it out, reading the words printed upon it.

"His name is Matthew, congratulations to the happy couple."

John's eyes widened, which happy couple? In his confusion he hadn't noticed Sherlock had emerged from his bedroom to stand in front of John, eyes squinted.

"John, is that, er, is that a baby?" Sherlock asked as John looked up at him. John nodded, mirroring the look of suprise on Sherlock's face. Even the world's best and only consulting detective couldn't understand why on earth John had found a child outside, in the middle of the night.

"Well, what is it doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"He." John corrected.

"What?" Sherlock snapped impatiently.

"It's a he, and his name's Matthew."

Sherlock snatched Matthew from John's arms, to John's loud protests, and began to study it. No bombs strapped to his chest, no signs of weapons or anything which could harm them. Surely this couldn't be the work of Moriarty, could it? Why on earth would Moriarty give them a baby?

Sherlock went on to deduce more about the baby. Yes, definitely a boy, 9 months and approximately 3 weeks old, unfortunately impossible to make a closer estimate. It came from a wealthy family according to its weight and the fabric of the blanket. So therefore not a beggar's child, dropped of with the hope of a more prosperous future with a loving couple. Blue eyes, therefore most likely to have two blue-eyed parents because of its genetics. Still warm, must have been dropped off fairly recently.

"Will you hold him properly!" John growled, carefully taking Matthew back into his arms and holding him properly, like he once used to hold his cousin Joseph. Sherlock glared at the both of them, then softened his gaze at John's alarmed look.

"Matthew, how did you know?" Sherlock asked.

"Huh?" John mumbled distractedly, waving his pinky in front of the child's face until he grabbed it with his whole hand and giggled delightedly.

"How did you know his name was Matthew?" Sherlock asked, his voice evidently hinting at how impatient he was. John sighed and handed him the slip of paper which Sherlock firstly sniffed, then brushed over it with his fingertips. John watched him in amusement, bouncing Matthew against his chest. Sherlock's eyes flickered over the note and he squinted again, John almost swore he could hear the cogs in his flatmate's brain whirring in thought.

"So a baby arrives on our doorstep in the middle of the night. Not long after, as if planned precisely, you hear it crying and answer the door to receive it. The baby is clearly old enough to survive on its own for at least a few hours, around 9 months old, meaning that this was even more cleverly planned. He comes from a wealthy background, so it wasn't just dropped off here for the hope of a better future, even more reason to be suspicious. And if that wasn't enough the note was typed instead of hand written and was clearly aimed at us."

"Clearly?" John raised an eyebrow. "In what way are we a 'happy couple'?" He asked, his face completely serious but if you looked closely enough, you could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"It's a joke, John, a prank, a trick. Or even worse, it's a trap."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, not everything is dangerous. He's just an innocent baby. No bombs, no explosives. Just a little…bundle of joy." John blushed heavily as he let the last phrase slip, his cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of pink.

Sherlock gave a quick smirk before grasping Matthew back into his arms, holding the baby as far away from his body as he could. He hurried back upstairs, laying him down on the kitchen table. He began to play with test tubes, odd coloured fumes smoking from them and filling the room with awful smells. John jumped in front of Sherlock, blocking his view of the table, with an incredibly angry look on his face.

"John, I'm trying to work here!" Sherlock hissed, casting him aside. On the table, Matthew began to wail unpleasantly and Sherlock grimaced at him, his brow creasing. He lifted Matthew into the air and then placed him into a large bowl. He then picked up a test tube and placed it over the bowl, frowning in concentration.

"No, NO! That baby is not another one of your experiments! He's crying for God's sake! Damn it, Sherlock! When will you learn?" John scooped Matthew from the bowl and held him against his chest protectively, kissing the top of his warm head just as the baby fell silent.

"Oh don't get sentimental!" Sherlock snapped. "He's here for a bad reason, John. Why else would someone have left him with us?"

The shorter man of the two ignored him, taking a seat in his armchair and rocking Matthew gently in his arms. It took this gesture for Sherlock to realise just how exhausted John was. There were big, dark circles under his eyes and the look of adventure and excitement had vanished from his features, leaving the look of fatigue behind. John peered up at him under heavy eyelids and Sherlock sighed, giving a defeated shrug.

"I guess he can't harm us. But we're not keeping him, he'll just get in the way." John didn't reply, just nodded, already drifting off into sleep.

As both Matthew and John began to snore quietly, Sherlock acknowledged just how innocent they seemed together. John was definitely the fatherly type, and he seemed to suit having a baby rested against his chest. Christ, was Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, falling for his flatmate because he looked cute with a baby? Sherlock cursed at himself inwardly. Cute. A word which he despised so greatly yet it fitted so well.

Taking one last look at his sleeping doctor and new little flatmate, absorbing the image and storing it away in his vast mind, he turned to go to bed. This time, he decided, he would not consider playing the violin.