A/N: I was challenged by a friend a while back to write a ParentLock story and as I'm getting nowhere on any of my other projects, I decided to give it a go. I'm not sure how long it will be, but I'm pretty prolific, so there should be updates often. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters contained within, with the exception of Gabriel.

1: The Arrival

Anthea thought about how there wasn't enough money in the entirety of the Queen's treasury to pay her for what she'd been through tonight. There was nothing in her job description that said being a nursemaid to an unruly child was a required duty. Once again, she'd succumbed to Mycroft's charm and promises of a sizeable Christmas bonus.

"Don't touch that," she snapped at the small boy who slumped across from her on the seat, playing with the buttons on his armrest. He stared at her, opening his blue eyes wide and raising an eyebrow as he let the window down once more. An evil grin crossed his features as he waved his arm out of the window to feel the chill autumn breeze against his skin. Anthea rolled her eyes and used her own controls to close the window, the glass narrowly missing the boy's arm as he jerked it away.

"That wasn't very nice!" the boy grumbled.

"I'm not a very nice girl," she replied, taking up her phone. She opened her text folder and found several from Mycroft:

"Take the boy to 221 B Baker Street."

"Tell my brother as little as possible."

"No word on Miss A. We can only assume she is deceased."

Anthea sighed. It was true that she didn't care much for her employer's snarky younger brother, but even Sherlock didn't deserve to be saddled with such a beast. Since they'd managed to track him down at the old convent, he'd been one disaster after another. Kicking and screaming to stay at the convent, refusing to take a bath, splashing mud all over her new dress… Anthea was not cut out for motherhood, that was clear.

"Where are we going?" the boy asked with an exasperated sigh. "I'm hungry."

"I'm taking you home," she replied, not looking up from her mobile.

"Back to the convent?"

"No. Your real home."

"My real home was St. Christopher's." The boy crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Anthea. She almost felt sorry for the kid. He'd been raised by those nuns as long as he could remember and now his entire life had been turned upside down. He was going to a strange place where he knew no one, a new home he'd never seen and was expected to live with a man he'd never met. Not to mention that it was pretty clear that Mycroft had said very little to Sherlock. He may not even believe that the child was his son.

Anthea leaned forward and took the boy's hand. "Look, Gabriel, I know that all of this seems bleak, but if you give it a chance, you may find that it's the best thing that ever happened to you." He started to grumble a reply when the car screeched to a halt in front of a narrow black door. "We're here," Anthea said, dropping Gabriel's hand.

Gabriel stepped out of the car and stared up at the cold brick building. He covered his ears, the noise of the cars rushing by was so loud. The woman who brought him here paused to pull his overnight bag out of the boot and then took his hand. He stared at it, considering whether he should take it or continue muffling the frantic sounds of the cars behind him. He chose the latter and rushed toward the door. 221B, the door screamed with its gold lettering. Gabriel had heard the tall man with the cold eyes say that was where he was going. The woman handed him his bag and briskly knocked the brass clapper against the black door. At first no one answered and Gabriel was sure that no one was home. He started to relax a bit and even smiled at the thought that they might actually take him back to St. Christopher's. It was hours away, but that would be hours away from this noisy, busy place. At that moment, a police car rushed by with its siren blaring. Gabriel let out a little whimper and dropped his bag, covering his ears again.

"What's wrong?" the woman asked.

"Too loud," he whined, pointing at the street behind them. "This place is too loud!" He was on the verge of a meltdown. His heart beat faster and suddenly the air around him was thin. "I want to go home!" he shouted, his hands now pulling at his messy, overgrown curls. Just as Gabriel was about to launch into a full blown fit, the door before them opened and a tiny old lady peeked out.

"Something wrong, dear?" she asked. Gabriel stopped, looking into the old woman's face. It was a kind face, worn with the creases of age, but kind. She knelt down to be on the child's level, addressing him rather than the tall woman. "Who might you be?"

"It's too loud," Gabriel replied.

"Well that's London for you," the old lady replied, standing to her full height and turning to the tall woman. "Good evening, Anthea."

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," Anthea replied, offering a terse smile. "Is Mr. Holmes in? We need to see him."

"Of course, dear. Just come right in before you catch a chill." She took Gabriel's hand in one of hers and his bag in the other, not giving him a chance to protest, and led them inside. Anthea closed the door behind them and followed Mrs. Hudson up the stairs. "Sherlock!" the older woman called as they started up to the second floor. Gabriel's short legs struggled up the steep staircase and he kept a tight grip on Mrs. Hudson's hand.

Gabriel's eyes were everywhere as they reached the top of the stairs. The flat was cluttered, but looked almost cozy. A fire blazed in the hearth across from them and Gabriel was glad. It had been so cold outside. A couple of armchairs and a couch that looked like it had been salvaged from a rummage sale were thrown a bit haphazardly about. He peeked around Mrs. Hudson and noticed that all manner of scientific looking bits and bobs were strewn across every available surface in the kitchen. Gabriel felt a little twinge of excitement, wanting to examine and touch everything, including the microscope that sat so precariously on the tabletop. "What happened to the wall?" Gabriel asked, pointing to where a funny yellow smiley face had been painted on the matronly wallpaper.

"I shot it." All three turned to see the man standing in the hallway. He was tall and thin, wearing a dark suit cut close, making his narrow form look even taller and thinner. Despite his earlier surliness, Gabriel took a step behind Mrs. Hudson and closer to Anthea. The newcomer was intimidating with the same cold, narrow eyes as the man who'd taken him from St. Christopher's.

"Sherlock…" Mrs. Hudson started. "Don't frighten the boy."

"I was simply answering the boy's question," Sherlock answered dryly. He walked over to Gabriel and stared down at him. Those cold, calculating eyes seemed to take in the small boy, examining every centimeter with a clinical interest. "Well there's surely no doubt as to his lineage, that's for sure. Dark hair with little regard for a brush, blue eyes obviously affected by heterochromia, large feet and hands for a child of five and mathematically speaking there would be no denying him, I suppose."

"Mathematically?" Anthea asked.

"Of course. Given that the boy is just over five years of age, count back nine months from there, give or take a few days and that would match up to the period of time I spent with his mother. Simple."

Anthea could only nod and then moved on to rummaging in her bag. She came up with a sealed envelope, slightly singed around the edges and handed it to Sherlock. "We found this in a locked box at a burned out house in Faringdon. It should explain everything." She patted Gabriel on the head, tousling his hair roughly. He hated that. "I must be off. Good luck." And before anyone could stop her, she was gone. Gabriel thought about running down the stairs after her, begging her to take him back to St. Christopher's but something about the stranger's presence kept Gabriel rooted to his spot. He watched as the stranger pocketed the large envelope and straightened his jacket.

"I'm Sherlock," he said, offering his hand to the child. Gabriel stared at it and then looked at Mrs. Hudson for reassurance. The old woman smiled warmly and nodded. The boy reluctantly took his hand and shook it. "This is Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, the arc of his eyebrow indicating that Gabriel should say hello.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Gabriel said, mimicking Sherlock and offering his hand. She took it and knelt down to the little boy.

"What's your name, little one?" she asked, her voice considerably more gentle than the deep menacing tone of Sherlock's.

"My name is Gabriel. After the angel."

"Oh really?" Mrs. Hudson cooed. "And are you as sweet as an angel?"

He giggled. "I don't know."

"I'll bet you are," she replied, patting the back of Gabriel's hand. "Oooh… your hands are cold. Why aren't you wearing a coat?"

"I don't have a coat," Gabriel replied, looking almost ashamed. He was cold, almost shivering in the freezing November air. At St. Christopher's they hadn't had much money and he had outgrown the threadbare coat he'd been given last year.

"Well then we'll have to sit you down by the fire and warm you up," she said, leading him past Sherlock and over to the fire. "You just sit right down here and I'll bring you a nice cup of cocoa and a couple of biscuits." The old woman disappeared down the stairs and that roiling feeling in his stomach started all over again. He heard some papers rustling. Sherlock stood behind him, reading the letter left in the scorched envelope. He made no sound and his face offered no clue as to what the letter said. Gabriel assumed that it was something about him. A letter explaining how this man was his father and that now he would have to live here in this noisy, busy place. Perhaps it would also explain why his mother had decided to leave him all alone with strangers.

"Sherlock!" Gabriel was startled at the sound of another deep voice echoing through the flat. Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs as whoever it was took them two at a time. "Sorry, I'm late. I had this lady come into the surgery right at the end. She was in labor and I thought…" He stopped short, seeing Gabriel sitting by the fire.

"John, this is Gabriel," Sherlock replied, not looking up from the letter.

"Hello, mate," the one called John said, cheerfully offering his hand to the little boy. "I'm John Watson."

"Do you live here too?" Gabriel asked.

"I do. Sherlock and I share the flat. My room is upstairs."

"Oh."

"How old are you, Gabriel?" John asked.

"I'm five. I guess."

"You guess? Don't you know?"

"Well, we never really had birthdays at St. Christopher's. Sister Margaret told me that I was five before I went with the tall man."

"The tall man?" John chuckled. "Who is the tall man?"

"The one that said I had to come live here."

"Mycroft, obviously," Sherlock mumbled. He folded the letter and stuffed it back into the scorched envelope before tossing it onto the counter at his side. "Did he say anything else to you?"

Gabriel shrugged. He wasn't sure how to address Sherlock and every time he asked him a question, Gabriel felt those little nervous flutters in his stomach again. "He just told me that my mum was dead and I'd have to live with my father."

"Charming," John grumbled. "Mycroft makes Adolph Hitler look warm and compassionate."

To Gabriel's relief, Mrs. Hudson came bustling back up the stairs with a tray of biscuits and cups. "I brought tea for everyone except the boy," she said. "You, my good man," she started, handing a cup to Gabriel, "get my extra special hot cocoa." He smiled. He thought he was going to like Mrs. Hudson.

"Nevermind that just yet," Sherlock sighed, taking the cup from the boy's hands. "Before this goes any further we should have an understanding. We do have rules here."