"Eugenia, what have you done to your sister?" Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, hearing the all-too-familiar cry of Mrs. Hudson the housekeeper coming upon some awful mess at the hand of one of his daughters. Swinging his legs down to the floor, he boosted himself up, following the commotion to the nursery. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. Eugenia, the second eldest, stood over her twin sister (younger by three minutes) Hortense.

"We were only playing, honestly," Eugenie rolled her eyes.

"I'll thank you not to take that tone with me. Now untie her this instant!"

"Genie," all three turned to see Sherlock coming up behind Mrs. Hudson. "How many times have I told you not to tie up your sister? Where is Hermia? She's supposed to be watching you."

"She's with Aunt Mary," Eugenia informed him. "It's Tuesday, she always has a music lesson on Tuesday with Aunt Mary." The disdain in her tone for his forgetting Hermia's music lesson was all-too-apparent and Sherlock disliked having to think for a moment to recall the fact.

Oh yes.

How could he have forgotten? Blast this case! Sherlock Holmes was at his wits end. The problem was not the children, and yet it was. He did not regret keeping them, not for a moment, but he could not be a parent on his own and take cases from his brother for the bettering of the British Empire. Of course, taking such important cases meant a better payment, which meant an easier life for the children. He still took on the cases for the lesser-man as well, those that proved interesting, but always with the guilt that these particular jobs did not pay well, and he must think of his children, rather than his own pleasure.

"Untie her, please," he said, and Eugenia rolled her eyes but did as he asked. "Go and wash for lunch, it's almost noon."

"Yes Papa," Hortense answered, once the kerchief was removed from her mouth.

Heading back downstairs, Sherlock sighed heavily. He wanted very much to be a good father, having children does that to a person, and despite what he used to vociferously claim, he was, in fact, human, and in possession of a heart. He loved his daughters very much, and while he did not wish for their birth mother, he did wish there was someone in the house to give a hand. Mrs. Hudson did what she could. Speaking of,

"I am not their nanny, Mister Holmes," he turned as the housekeeper came trouncing down the stairs after him, passing him. She paused on the landing. "But you'd do good to find one; I can't be up and down stairs all day, not with all the work I've got already, and Mrs. Dickerson won't watch them, not with meals to prepare, not for a hundred quid!"

"I know, Mrs. Hudson, the thought has occurred to me. I shall write an advertisement this afternoon. Perhaps enough time has passed since the last incident."

"I've already written one, sign it and I shall put it out in the penny-post after luncheon." He raised an eyebrow, and then nodded.

"Very well. Leave it on my desk."

"Huh! Desk indeed. You'd never find it if I did," she went off, muttering under her breath towards the kitchen to help cook lay out the table for lunch.

Sherlock Holmes was the World's Only Consulting Detective, and also the father of three little girls. He had, quite foolishly, heeded his brother Mycroft's advice to marry. He'd done the popular thing and selected a woman that by all outward appearances would be a good wife. Beauty, brains, breeding and all that. The former Miss Adler soon proved to be unwilling to play the part of a happy wife (a quiet hope Sherlock once dwelt on, despite popular belief, he did sometimes think of the happy home-life of his dearest friend John Watson with some envy). Irene acted the dutiful wife brilliantly in public, she even did her part and performed her wifely duties with general agreement that there ought to be children in the marriage. After birthing three girls, Hermia, and then the twins Eugenia and Hortense, she declared she did not want to be a mother, nor, indeed, a wife.

"Send me away, you shan't be bothered by me, that I can promise. London has grown too small for me, I think. Anyway you won't miss me. You'll be far too busy with your cases and the children. I'll tell people I'm just taking a holiday, to the Continent or wherever is far enough away I shan't make too much a disturbance."

He thought often of the night Irene had told him she was leaving. She'd been sitting at her vanity in her room, her maid quietly combing her hair. She wanted a separation, it would mean scandal, of course, not that such a thing mattered to Sherlock. At that point, any respite from her sneaking around behind his back would be welcome, no matter the consequences. Still, he was shocked by her callousness towards the children, he asked she at least tell the children she was leaving, and she promised, then left a day earlier than previously thought, giving no warning, nor even a letter to their daughters. His daughters now. He would keep Irene from them with whatever power he had, she had done enough damage already.

Mycroft, who had kept tabs on Irene all through the marriage, informed Sherlock that a quiet divorce would be best, especially in regard to the children's futures. A separation, as Irene wanted, would mean she could come back whenever she wanted, and probably demand money. A divorce would mean a settlement, and cutting her clean away from the girls' lives. Sherlock agreed, but only on the condition that he be the one to keep the children, without any chance of Irene coming to claim them. It was unheard of, a father taking custody, daughters at that, but he refused to let Irene have them, knowing she would be an unfit mother. Mycroft had made the arrangements, and now Irene was well away, somewhere in Venice or Bombay or some other dreadfully hot place. Sherlock knew he was well-rid of her, knew her influence on the children would have been terrible. But it was still difficult, seeing Hermia retreat further and further within herself. As the eldest, she remembered her birth-mother quite clearly, at least from her perspective, and felt that somehow, her mother's leaving was Papa's fault. She never said so, but Sherlock thought that it must be the reason she stopped approaching him after Irene left. He recalled a time when Hermia would come downstairs, long after she should have been abed. She would sit with him while he talked about a particular case or experiment, or sometimes crawling onto his lap while he was deep in his mind palace. He missed those times dreadfully. She was nearing the age of eleven, Mycroft said it was high-time she be put in a boarding school, but Sherlock would not have it. Eugenia and Hortense were too young yet, only eight. They usually kept to themselves, content to be each other's entertainment for the time being. Still, each of the girls felt keenly the lack of mother, and they were more apt to run to Mrs. Hudson than their father if they had trouble. He did not begrudge them their affection for the housekeeper, she was the only positive female influence in their lives besides Mary Watson, but he might have enjoyed it if his daughters might sometimes spare him a thought.

The girls took their luncheon downstairs, (he didn't see the point in keeping them confined to the nursery when they had the whole of 221b Baker Street at their disposal. Three floors, why on earth would he keep them to one room? The only part of the house that was off-limits was the basement, where he kept his laboratory, and he was in possession of the only key. There had been nannies before, but once word gets out that one or more of your daughters perform (ingenious) pranks on nannies, suddenly all of them are unsuitable to work. So for the past month and a half, they had been trying to get by without one. Today, however, Mrs. Hudson had reached her wits end, having had to untie Hortense for the fifth time, pry Hermia off the ladder to the roof and convince Eugenia that the cat should not be shaved, nor, should poor Jimmy, one of Sherlock's Baker Street Irregulars, be stuffed into a cupboard.

After lunch, Sherlock retreated to his study, about to sink once again into his mind palace to sort over the latest case he was working on when Mrs. Hudson appeared, letter in hand.

"As I said, if you'll sign it, I'll send it out."

"Nannies have stopped answering the advertisements, remember? They know the address," he replied.

"A governess," Mrs. Hudson clarified. "I can get the children up in the morning well enough, but their days need to be occupied, and as you will not send Miss Hermia to boarding school, it's time their education began. It's not unheard of for a governess to live-in. It's done in a good deal of the great houses."

"We are not a 'great house', Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock reminded her.

"Holmes is a great name," she clarified. "And as such, the children will need to be educated. They are clever, too clever for their own good; they're going barking mad with just the three of them and nothing to occupy them. Jimmy refuses to assist in any errand upstairs. They need someone to mind them."

"Why specifically a governess and not a nanny?" Sherlock asked, taking the advertisement she'd written and began to look it over.

"I thought that if we asked for a governess instead of a nanny, we might get a few replies this time." Sherlock nodded his approval. "It would mean paying a little more, as we have no nanny."

"And you think you could convince whoever applies of the increase in their duties?" Mrs. Hudson looked at him wryly.

"Well we haven't a choice, have we?" Sherlock nodded, thoughtful.

"Very well," he signed the advertisement, and then dug through his pockets for the money for the post. "There," handing over the paper and a few small coins. "I trust you to see to the matter, if there is one that appears suitable, you might meet her first before sending her up to me."

"What if I know she's suitable? Shall I wait until you decide you've nothing better to do than meet her?" Sherlock pondered this, realizing entirely that if a case came up (as they so often did) it would mean putting off meeting the would-be employee for a considerable time.

"Then I leave it entirely to you, Mrs. Hudson, but do see that you do not confuse efficiency with a liver complaint this time."
"Very good, sir." Mrs. Hudson, happy she got her way, went to put on her hat and coat and mail it. With any luck, they'd receive a reply by the end of the week. In the whole of London there had to be a governess willing to work with three little girls.

Weeks passed, and not even so much as a 'Thank you but no' letter. Sherlock even told the Watson's he was looking for a governess. Mary got such a look in her eyes that Sherlock knew she would not let the matter rest, and in fact she most likely had someone in mind already.

"Who is it, Mrs. Watson?" he asked tiredly John chuckled from his place by the fire.

"Nothing, just a friend of mine, an old friend, she's looking for a position."

"Do you think she would be suitable?" Sherlock asked, interest piqued. Hermia had almost set fire to the curtains that morning, and at this point, he would take anyone.

"I think so, yes," Mary nodded. "She's never been a governess before, but she's very brilliant, she's been applying to universities." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John looked up, knowing suddenly who Mary was referring to.

"Mary," his tone was cautionary.

"What for?" Sherlock asked. "I mean what does she wish to major in?"

"She wants to be a doctor," John said. "It's ridiculous, the work she puts in, only to be turned away every time. Doesn't seem suitable to me, my dear," Mary turned to her husband, frowning. He shook his head. "No, not- I meant what if she does attend a college? She'd be leaving them in the lurch again."

"I shouldn't like to withhold her from something as important as that," Sherlock seemed reluctant.

"I'm not going to tell her to give up, but she does need a means to support herself, perhaps for the time being, it will keep her distracted and let her get herself organized."

"I don't need someone who themselves is in need of organizing," Sherlock groused.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Mary retorted. "Will you at least meet with her?" Mary asked. The consulting detective sighed heavily.

"I expect you'd like me to,"

"Consider it a favor to me."

"Very well," he said. John Watson rolled his eyes, lighting his pipe.

The next day, Watson's residence

"Honestly, Mary, I'm at my wits end," Molly Hooper sat in the parlor, wrenching off her gloves. "Every letter, every single letter, 'thank you for applying-"

"But we do not, nor have we ever admitted women in our university," Mary finished, nodding. "Believe me, I understand,"

"I know you do, I'm just fed up is all. All father ever wanted was a doctor in the family."

"Don't you think he understood your limitations?" Mary asked gently. "Goodness, you know how much he cared for you, he'd want your happiness, not demand a position you could not achieve." Molly sighed heavily. "Do you even want to be a doctor?"

"Not like Dr. Watson, no, I think I'd like to work in pathology."

"Oh!" Mary's eyebrows rose, clearly surprised at Molly's choice.

"Is that odd?" Molly asked, and then shook her head. "Of course it's odd, but someone's got to learn about why people die, and so much of the subject is unknown, think of what we could discover about the human body-"

"You needn't convince me," Mary laughed, handing her a cup of tea. "I expect you've said all this already to King's College, there's loads in Oxford, it doesn't have to be a large university, you know."

"I've tried all twenty-five universities in Oxford, and in London- Birkbeck, Royal Holloway, University of Westminster, University of Roehampton, St. Mary's Twickenham,"

"You're not catholic," Mary laughed, astonished.

"I thought they wouldn't mind," Molly replied with a shrug. "Or at least I could pretend."

"You always hated admitting defeat," Mary shook her head, sitting down. "Don't give in just yet, but do take a break, at least for a while," she advised. "You'll wear yourself out, especially after trying for so long, and wouldn't they love that?"

"I suppose," Molly sighed heavily. "But what should I do until then? Take work in a shop again? I don't think I could bear it."

"Ah, well…there I may be of some help. You know Sherlock Holmes?"

"The detective?"

"Hmm, that's him, he's got three children, all girls, poor man doesn't know what to do with them, and he's looking for a governess."

"So you think I should apply?" Molly asked with a quirked brow. "Do be serious."

"I am!" Mary insisted. "Honestly, it isn't as if it would be a challenge to educate them, you're brilliant with mathematics and geography, obviously, if you're applied to so many universities your penmanship must be excellent by now."

"There's a good deal more to being a governess than mathematics and map-reading. They'll need to learn another language, and I don't know any."

"Oh that wouldn't matter to Sherlock- er, Mister Holmes. He'd probably hire a french tutor, or whatever it is that's fashionable to learn these days if you taught them everything else."

"Isn't he divorced?" Molly asked, suddenly remembering hearing something about the famous consulting detective's status.

"Yes, almost a year by now,"

"Mary!" Molly was shocked.

"What? Oh for goodness sakes', it happens all the time, nice people just don't talk about it."

"That's something that's not often said about you," Molly said, giving her a sidelong look.

"Nonsense, I'm delightful." Molly frowned,

"That's not always nice."

"No, but it's much more fun," Mary beamed. "Now come on, what do you say? I'll help you write your reference letter. He's absolutely desperate, it'd be a tremendous favor, and his girls are absolute angels." Mary nearly chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out how large a white lie that was. It wasn't completely off, Hermia, Eugenie and Hortense could be very, very good. It just so happened they could be very, very bad as well.

Molly bit her lip, pondering. Her savings would not last forever, and she'd vowed not to touch the inheritance from her father unless she had a desperate need. She needed work. And who was to say she couldn't keep applying to universities if this didn't work out?

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," Molly relented at last. "A trial at any rate."

"Good!" Mary got to her feet, hurrying to the writing desk. "You write, I'll dictate. We can mail it first thing."

"Wh- oh, well…now?" she took the paper and ink.

"Yes now, no time like the present, now go on: 'To whom it may concern,'"

Shaking her head, Molly bowed over the paper, the nib of the pen scritch-scratching as she wrote down everything Mary said.

"I don't like all these embellishments," Molly said, when it was finished.

"Nonsense, every resume has them,"

"But I haven't been to university."

"You've gone to tour colleges haven't you?"

"Well…yes."

"Then you've been to a university."

"Mary, I'm not writing that!"

"Oh for goodness sakes', fine, don't," Mary huffed.

"I don't think I've a way with children either,"
"Nonsense, look how Tobias and Emma take to you,"

"That's different, they're yours, and they've known me since they were born," Molly sighed. "Honestly."

"Children like you, and you like them," Mary insisted. "Stop doubting yourself."

Through much deliberation, Molly's reference was finished by the time the sun was beginning to set.

"I'll see it's mailed first thing," Mary said, sealing it up and addressing it. "Look for a reply probably tomorrow afternoon, if I know Sherlock Holmes. It will probably be from Mrs. Hudson, his housekeeper."

"What if he decides I'm not fit?"

"Trust me, at this point, Sherlock Holmes would take anyone," Mary Watson promised with a smile. Molly sighed heavily, hoping she was right.