Papa's Mockingbird: Two.

"Can't you take her?"

"Holmes, it's only for at most an hour. She doesn't bite."

"No, but she whines and this is far more infuriating."

"I won't be long -"

"Watson-"

"Good bye, Holmes."

**

It was an odd thing. Sherlock Holmes, expert detective of London, had been reduced to a nanny. The infant, who had now been aged at twelve weeks and two days, was to be staying with them at 221B Baker street, much to Holmes' distaste. Watson seemed to think it was a better place for her than the street or orphage, but, in truth, he just wanted to be a father; it didn't matter who's DNA it was. At least, that's what Holmes had seen and he was always able to see through his friend as if he were glass.

Mrs Hudson and the good doctor had wasted no time in retreaving old cribs and Moses baskets from the attic, and the landlady had even purchased a beautiful bassinet for the child. Holmes' had done nothing but scowl at it. He hated children, he didn't understand the attraction to something that could barely hold it's own head up. What use was a child to his 'business' anyway? It would only hold him back.

But she seemed to have everyone head over heels just by smiling or opening her big blue eyes. It was sickening and ridiculous.

Even the bulldog had taken to her.

**

Holmes heard the child from the other room,  even over the drone of his violin. He listened, waiting to hear the comforting voice of Mrs Hudson. However, after approximately four minutes and thirty four seconds, there was still no sign of the landlady. The infants whining had grown exceptionally louder.

"Good Lord!" Holmes swore and stormed to her newly acquired chamber.

There she was, with her woollen blankets kicked to the bottom of the bassinet and her tiny fists lashing out at nothing. She gazed up at Holmes and, somewhat, quietened.

"What? You can't possibly think I'll lift you?" The man scowled at the child.

It was exactly what she thought.

They watched each other, the baby now surprisingly silent. It was as if she was trying to ware him down, as if she knew that he couldn't resist her baby blues for much longer.

"This was your ploy? You cried only to get me to come in here and hold you?" Holmes whispered, "I'm not like the other fools, I don't care much for children; if at all. You're eyes will not get me, infant!"

She began to whine again, which quickly turned to a loud howl. The detective growled low in his throat and, sighing, took the child into his arms. She stopped and seemed to smile in triumph.

He juggled her, trying to hold her as he had seen Watson and Mrs Hudson do. Eventually, after his third try, he had her head rested in the crook oh one elbow, and her body support by his arms.

"There. Comfortable now, madam?"

She smiled and curled into his body. One fist was shoved into her mouth while the other was holding tightly to the fabric of Holmes shirt. She turned up her nose at the man's smell and he chuckled.

"Now," he dictated walking out the door and back into his own room, " would madam like to see one's chamber? I warn, there is not much of interest to your young eyes. But, you asked to be held, you did not ask where to go."

The smell of the room earned another upturned nose, but only briefly. Holmes sat with her on his lap by the fire, Gladstone sat at his feet and licked at the child's outstretched hand. A small, infant giggle filled the room and Holmes found himself enjoying the company of the youngster. Her innocence was fascinating, the way her eyes looked at him and everything else, as if it were all new and wonderful and untainted. She cuddled into him as if he weren't a cold hearted detective who loved nothing more than a murder case. As if he didn't smoke and drink and thrive off opium. With her in his arms he felt responsible; he felt like an adult.

How strange it was to go from hating her to liking her within moments? Children certainly were the devils work.

**

Watson was slightly worried that his partner hadn't taken to the baby. It was certain that she was staying, and the detective knew that, but he refused anything to do with her; he wouldn't even help with a name. For years, Watson had wanted to be a father but, since discovering his attraction and love for Holmes, he knew the dream was abandoned. That was until he found the child. The least the other man could do was try.

However, he was more than stunned to arrive home and find Holmes and baby asleep in his chair. She had her head buried into his chest, his arms were protectively cradling her body, one hand stroking her blonde curls and the other was free to be held by her. She had her small fist clasped around his index finger.

Holmes stirred.

"Beatrix." he whispered.

"Pardon?"

"Name her Beatrix. She looks like someone who will bring a lot of joy."

Watson moved forward and kissed the detective neatly on the lips, his other hand gently stroked back strands of his hair.

"Beatrix it is." he sighed, "Beatrix Holmes."