Second Lieutenant John Watson, MD, popped his stiff neck as he strode down the halls of the children's hospital to the cafeteria. He had already lost most of his lunch break trying to soothe a nauseous five-year-old—not that he blamed the poor kid. Chemotherapy was hard enough on adults. For a body so small to go through so much…days like today made John wish he was back in the Middle East with his unit. At least over there I can shoot the enemy and be done with it. Here, it's not so simple.

John was grateful for the job, of course. The money the RAMC paid him while he was off-duty wasn't nearly enough to keep a roof over his head. The children's hospital gave him more than enough to cover his rent. It was just that, some days, watching all the frail figures drifting in and out of the hospital, he longed for a war he knew he could win. Death in battle was one thing. Watching a child too young for school choke on her own blood was another.

"Hey, John. John!"

John gritted his teeth and walked a little faster. When the voice called his name again more desperately, John rolled his eyes and turned around. "Yeah, Tony? Hey, you all right?"

All of John's irritation drained away when he noticed his co-worker's red-rimmed eyes. Tony took a steadying breath before he forced out, "Girlfriend was in a car crash in Bristol. She's unconscious right now, so they don't know if she'll—" Tony took another shivering gulp of air. Instinctively, John reached out a hand to steady him. "I have to go to her. I need you to take my shift. Please?"

"Jesus Christ, Tony. Of course I will," John said instantly. "Here, give me your patient files and get out of here."

"Thanks," Tony breathed. John watched him vault over the nurses' station and bolt out the hospital's front doors. A part of John felt as though he should have said more, but…what would I have said? I'll pray? I won't. The only time I believe in God is when I'm being shot at. It's too easy to put the blame on something that's not real. Jesus Christ, though, a crash.

With a grimace, John tugged his attention away from what he couldn't control and to the thick file in his hand. "So much for my lunch," he muttered. "Okay. Who's first?"

Please no cancer patients. The thought came before John could stop it. The memory of the little girl shivering in her hospital bed made his fists clench. No more today. Something exciting, for Christ's sake. I'm dying here.

With trepidation filling his stomach,John flipped the file open to the first page. The strangest name he had ever seen greeted him. "Sherlock Holmes. Who the hell calls their kid Sherlock Holmes?"

The two-year-old boy was not a cancer patient, thank God. Instead, he was in the second floor trauma unit. He'd taken a nasty fall down a flight of stairs at his home; while the cut on his forehead had easily been sewn up the night before, he'd been kept at the hospital overnight to ensure he didn't have a concussion. Underneath the boy's previous vital signs, Tony had scrawled a single note: Too damn smart.

John frowned. No diagnosis, other than the straightforward information a nurse had penned on the form. Just too damn smart, whatever the hell that meant.

Even before he reached Room 221, John could hear the petulant cries coming from within. A nurse's voice tried to soothe over them, but her soft words did nothing to muffle little Sherlock's whine. "Bored!"

"I know you are, love, but you have to stay still until the doctor comes in to check on you. Oh, look! There he is! That's your doctor, see, Sherlock?"

John spared a smile for the harried-looking nurse. "Hey, Mary. I can handle it from here."

"Thank God," Mary Morstan grumbled. "Watch him, John," she warned as she brushed past him. "He's a little monster."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, he can't be that bad—"

"Who are you?"

The sharp little voice caught John's attention immediately. When he turned back toward the hospital bed, it was to find Sherlock Holmes fixing him with a stare that was much too keen for a two-year-old. "I'm Dr. Watson."

The boy studied him warily with piercing blue eyes. Then, with diction far too clear for such a small child, Sherlock said, "You aren't my usual doctor. You're new from the army. Why are you here?"

John blinked. "I—how the he…um, how could you have possibly known about the army?"

Sherlock shrugged his thin shoulders. "Hair's short. You stand up straight. Your skin's darker, too, like you fought in the desert."

"Ah—well, yes, that's because I am a soldier." When he'd first started his rounds at the hospital, the more experienced doctors had warned John to never go into detail about his life as a soldier in case it upset the children. The bright curiosity in Sherlock's pale eyes made John throw all those well-meant warnings out the window. "I'm Second Lieutenant John Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps. I just got back from Afghanistan a month ago."

"Afghanistan." Sherlock seemed to roll the word around his mouth, testing it out, before he nodded. "Where's my doctor?"

"He had a…family emergency, so I offered to take his patients for the rest of the day. That includes you. Sherlock Holmes, right?"

The little boy nodded. "I had a concuss—concussion, but I feel fine now."

Bloody hell. How does he know…too damn smart is right. John shook himself and reached out to hold Sherlock's head still. "It doesn't hurt to shake your head?"

Sherlock fixed John with a condescending stare. "Obviously not." He emphasized the usually-silent 'b' in obviously; John's lips twitched upward at the impatient drawl.

"Yeah, I guess that was a bit of a stupid question. Okay, does your tummy—"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Tummy? I'm not stupid, John! It's my stomach!"

Now, John did choke back a surprised chuckle. "Sorry, I'm sorry! I'm not used to kids as intelligent as you. Right, stomach, does your stomach hurt at all?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not dizzy, either. I told you, John, I feel fine!"

"All right, all right, Sherlock. I believe you! I have to check you over just in case, though."

As soon as John reached for Sherlock, the tiny boy squirmed away from his grasp. John frowned. "Come on, Sherlock. It's all right. I'm trying to help you, not hurt you." When John stretched out a placating hand, Sherlock smacked it away and actually hissed. John pulled back with a sigh. Mary's words echoed through John's mind: He's a little monster! When Sherlock bared his teeth and growled, John found himself agreeing. How the hell am I supposed to check him over when he's trying to bite me?

Another high-pitched growl rumbled from Sherlock. "Don't touch me! It'll hurt!"

John started. "What? No, it won't, not if I'm careful. Are you afraid, Sherlock?"

Instantly, Sherlock sat up straight. "No! Fear's weak," he snapped, but his wide eyes screamed "Obviously!"

With a frown, John worried his lip. "Fear's not weak," he said quietly. "Do you want to know a secret?"

"It's not a secret if you tell," Sherlock said sullenly. He edged closer to John, though. The doctor took this as a sign to continue.

"I've been afraid before. I was afraid in Afghanistan the first time I was shot at. Do you think I'm weak?" John didn't let Sherlock respond. He really didn't want to know the boy's answer. "Do you know why I was afraid? I didn't know what to expect. No one had told me how it would feel to have bullets flying over my head. Once I knew what was coming, I felt a lot less nervous. It might help you if I explain to you what I'm looking for."
For a long moment, Sherlock studied John doubtfully. Then he sighed. "All right. What are you going to do to me?"

John stifled his victorious grin as he pulled out his pocket torch. "Well, first I'm going to see how your pupils react to light."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Pupils?"

"The dark parts in the centers of your eyes. They allow light into the retina—the part of your eye that turns light into signals that travel to your brain and let you see." Belatedly, John remembered he was talking to a two-year-old. He opened his mouth to water the definition down and then realized that Sherlock was breathless with enthusiasm. John frowned and asked curiously, "Did you understand all that?" When Sherlock leveled another "Obviously!" look at him, John couldn't help himself. "Brilliant!"

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You." Sherlock continued to study John with a puzzled expression. John took the opportunity to capture Sherlock's tiny face in one hand and shine his torch in first one eye, then the other. Before Sherlock could complain, John made a pleased sound and released Sherlock's head. "Good. Your eyes seem fine."

Quickly, Sherlock's small hand shot out toward John's torch. "I want to look at your eyes!"

John winced. Just what I need—to be blinded by a two-year-old. Still, he handed over his torch reluctantly. Immediately, Sherlock scrambled onto John's lap. One chubby hand fisted in John's hair while the other shone the light into John's right eye. Sherlock squealed with delight. "Your pupil moved!"

"Yeah, it's supposed to do that. It's dilating to control how much light comes into my eye."

"Dilating." Just as he had with the word "Afghanistan," Sherlock whispered it several times as if to get the feel of it. He shone the light in John's other eye, gasping softly when John's left pupil reacted just the same as his right pupil had. Then Sherlock sat back on John's lap with a wondering expression. "Both of them dilated, John. You don't have a concussion."

"I should hope I don't," John muttered. "Give me my torch back. Thank you."

As he pocketed it, John expected Sherlock to climb off of his lap again. Instead, the slip of a boy kneeled up on John's legs and brought his face so close to John's that John's eyes crossed. "What next?"

"Um—I think I'm done testing you," John said weakly. "Your brain activity seems to be normal. Better than normal. Amazing."

Sherlock leaned even further forward until his forehead leaned against John's. "You're not smart, John, but you're not boring like the doctor from last night. Can you be my doctor forever?"

John rankled at the first part of Sherlock's statement—not smart? Bugger that! I've been through med school and RAMC training. I'm smart enough!—but his irritation lessened at the earnest pitch of Sherlock's voice. He pushed the child away from his face so he could look at him properly. "You'll be leaving the hospital in just a bit, Sherlock, and with any luck you'll be staying away for good. You shouldn't need anyone as a doctor like this."

Instead of brightening, Sherlock's face fell. He scrubbed his hands through his messy dark curls. For the first time since John had met him, the boy's words slurred together. "Need one if I 'pset Mummy 'gain."

Something in the back of John's mind whispered a warning. His voice cut a little sharper than he intended it to when he asked, "What do you mean, upset Mummy?"

Sherlock's head jerked up. Before John could catch him, the boy launched himself to the other side of the bed. "Can't tell. I fell down the stairs. I fell down all the stairs and hit my head. I upset Mummy. I upset Mummy. I always upset Mummy."

"All right, okay, it's okay. It's all fine, Sherlock." John flipped open the chart to read through the nurses' and doctor's notes on Sherlock's injury again. To John's surprise, while there was a mention of stairs, there was no explanation for how the toddler had managed to fall down them. The doctor wet his lips while he tried to think of a way to lure Sherlock back from his corner of the bed to check out the row of stitches across his head. And maybe see if there's a handprint somewhere—

But no. There couldn't be. Tony might have been falling to bits while he rushed out earlier, but he would have been on top of his game the night before when Sherlock Holmes was admitted to the hospital with a concussion and a gash to his forehead. Tony knew the difference between someone who had fallen down the stairs and someone who had been pushed. If anything had been wrong, he would have reported it.

Suddenly, a pair of pale eyes was right in front of John's face again. John cursed without meaning to and fell back on the bed with Sherlock on his chest. "What are you thinking about?" the boy demanded.

"Um…rugby," John invented.

Instantly, Sherlock's face fell. "Boring! Stop it. Be interesting."

"All right, what's interesting? Oh, I know. Sit up so I can get up. I'm going to have Mary call your parents to pick you up. Do you want to come to the nurses' station with me?" When Sherlock looked suspicious, John added, "I'll have one of them take your blood pressure and explain it to you."

Sherlock shook his head furiously. "No! You have to do it, John."

John resisted the impulse to roll his eyes at the imperious little figure looming over him. "Fine. Come on, you." With a groan, he climbed to his feet and swung Sherlock onto his shoulders. The toddler was much lighter than John had expected, although the boy did dig his fingers into John's scalp when the doctor began to walk. "You all right up there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock giggled. "Go, John, go!" The little voice was so enthusiastic that John had to laugh along. A voice in the back of John's head scolded, You can't giggle! You'll bother the other patients! John told this voice in no uncertain terms to sod off. Sherlock's incessant chatter, observations about the nurses and doctors who walked past them in the hall ("That doctor's not wearing his ring, John. You can see it's missing. He's got a funny wig, too. Why, John?"), gave him the most fun he'd had since he'd returned from Afghanistan.

Once Mary Morstan finished calling Sherlock's family, she informed John that they would arrive in a quarter of an hour. She offered to take Sherlock from John ("You have other patients, too, Dr. Watson!"), but John remembered her description of Sherlock as a monster and shook his head. Sure, the two-year-old was irritable, nosy, and generally maddening, but John realized that Sherlock Holmes might be the brightest person he knew. The thought was equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Sherlock tugged at John's military-short hair impatiently when the doctor remained still for too long. John grimaced at the sensation and then proceeded to distract the tiny genius the best he could. John was lifting Sherlock up so he could run his fingers over the Braille underneath the nurses' station sign when a sharp voice cut across the corridor. "What are you doing with my little brother?"

At the sound, Sherlock wriggled around in John's arms to face the newcomer. "Mycroft!"

The plump boy in the three-piece suit stared John down from behind the safety of an open black umbrella. John glanced outside to find the sky perfectly clear. His eyebrows crept towards his hairline when he looked back at the kid and his inexplicable umbrella. "You're Sherlock's brother?"

"Obviously." Well, that's obviously where Sherlock gets that word from, John thought, although the umbrella boy didn't pronounce the 'b' so strongly. When John's eyebrows raised further, the boy with the umbrella's glare disappeared quickly. "I apologize. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm seven years old. The boy you're holding is Sherlock, my younger brother. My mother will arrive to collect both of us shortly."

John cleared his throat. "I'm—"

"Mycroft, this is Second Lieutenant John Watson of the RAMC! He was in Afghanistan, but now he works here. My doctor from last night had a family emergency, so John took his shift. He asked me how I felt and then checked my pupils with his torch to see if they dilated. Pupils are the black parts of your eyes, see?" Sherlock widened his eyes. "They let in light to your…retinas, which send messages to your brain to make pictures. John let me look at his pupils, too. They dilated fine," Sherlock assured his brother.

Now Mycroft's eyebrows were raised. A slow, indulgent smile spread across his chubby face. "That's wonderful, Sherlock. I'm glad you took the time to learn something new. You're sure you feel fine?"

Sherlock bared his teeth. John, who sensed another hissing session coming on, quickly intervened. "Erm—Mycroft, why exactly do you have an umbrella?"

Mycroft's face flushed. He studied the object carefully before he closed it and hid it behind his back. "I thought…I thought it looked rather nice, that's all."

"Oh. Well. There's nothing wrong with that, I guess. It's all fine." John sent a pointed look at Sherlock, who was giggling far too loudly at his brother's embarrassment. "Right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock let out another snort. Mycroft's eyes flashed dangerously. John tightened his grip on Sherlock and hoped beyond hope that World War III wouldn't commence immediately in the hallway of the Children's Hospital. "Boys," he said warningly.

"Mycroft! There you are! I was worried sick!"

Quite a few doctors and nurses stopped and stared as the fur-clad woman hurried down the hall in her high heels. John wondered, dumbly, if he was about to meet some relative of the Queen. Mycroft dropped his gaze as she approached. "I'm sorry, Mummy. I didn't mean to upset you. Neither did Sherlock. He's feeling much better."

"Mummy," Sherlock whispered, suddenly subdued. John made to hand the little boy to his mother, but she gestured for him to set Sherlock on his feet instead. A tremor ran through the boy. He glanced over at his older brother, who nodded slightly. "I apologize for upsetting you, Mummy."

Sherlock's mother pursed her lips. "Yes, well. Thank your doctor. Thank you, Dr.—"

"John," Sherlock mumbled. "His name is John."

John had faced down suicide bombers and insurgents without betraying a hint of fear. Sherlock's mother sent a chill down his spine. Something about the way she looked him up and down dismissively made John feel like a bug under a microscope. I can only imagine how Sherlock feels. Jesus. John pulled himself up to his full height and met Sherlock's mother's gaze steadily. "You have a remarkable son, Mrs. Holmes."

Mrs. Holmes's mouth fell open slightly. John resisted a smirk at the thought that he had startled her. "Do I?" she said slowly. When John nodded, she turned to study both of her sons pensively. "Yes, I suppose I do, by your standards. Thank you for your time, Doctor."

"You're welcome." Although he faced Mrs. Holmes when he said it, John directed the words towards the two silent boys beside her. "Stay away from staircases, Sherlock. Be careful."

Inexplicably, Sherlock flinched. He watched John with unreadable pale eyes while his mother tugged him away toward the elevator. Just before they climbed aboard, Mycroft turned slightly to wave his umbrella. John raised a hand in return. He barely heard Sherlock call, "Good-bye, John."

For a full half-hour after the Holmeses left the Children's Hospital, John stood in the hall, lost in thought. When Mary Morstan finally reached around her desk to shake him out of his trance, all he could think to say was, "What the bloody hell was all that?"

It's a thing! I wrote a thing! This story will follow John's adventures with little Sherlock and Mycroft and will later include Lestrade. Sophie (teacrumpetsandjam from tumblr) is my official poker and prodder when it comes to this story, so I must thank her! I'll update as often as I can. I have the entire plot planned out and the final chapter written. I just have to pen all the parts in between.

I've made a playlist of songs to go along with this story. You can find it at ht tp:/www. you tube .c om /pla ylist?list=PL63CE EDDB89994D38& feature=mh_lolz . (Remove the spaces.) I'll add more songs as I write.