Disclaimer: I'm just a poor girl, I have no ownership rights to nothing *runs off into a corner and cries* T_T

A/N: Originally, I had titled this story 'Nightmares, Storms and Hot Cocoa', but it doesn't seem to convey the plot of it properly. I'm not entirely happy with the current title, so if anyone has any suggestions, they will be very welcomed.

This story is set in the same universe as my previous story 'What Binds Us Together', but although it might be useful to read that first in order to get to know the character of Cathy, I suppose all you really need to know is that she is John's daughter, and that this is set Post-Reichenbach and Post-Hiatus.

Enjoy, read and review! ^_^

Thunder and Lightning

Ever since moving back into Baker Street, John had been working a more manageable time schedule at St Bartholomew's Hospital in order to spend more time at home with Cathy and start helping Sherlock out on his cases once again. There was nothing John loved more than coming home early in the afternoon, kicking off his shoes, and laying down on the sofa with his two year old daughter sprawled on top of him while they watched afternoon cartoons on the telly. He didn't care much for the two bit shows, but he loved putting his arms around Cathy and hearing her laugh at the silly plots. Sherlock had secretly come to enjoy watching John and his kid interact. After everything that had happened to the doctor and knowing he'd had a hand in causing him grief, he felt a warmth pool in his chest every time he saw John happy.

The doctor had a tendency to fall asleep while they watched the inane programs, and Sherlock had to resist the urge to chuckle each time little Cathy shoved him awake, intentionally or otherwise. As much as he'd come to care for the tiny Watson, the detective wasn't sure he'd be as devoted to her to allow her to elbow him in the ribs and worse. He supposed that was why John was her father and not him; indeed, Sherlock was very content with his role of doting uncle.

He had embraced it with more dedication and spirit than Mycroft, perhaps because he'd noticed how much his brother doted on the girl already. He found it strangely fascinating how this child could reduce the two self-proclaimed cold men to compliant conspirators in her machinations, yet he'd felt a twinge of jealousy at the notion that Mycroft knew her better than he did. He'd set out to remedy this by showering her with attention whenever he wasn't otherwise occupied with a case. This, he'd found, hadn't been as difficult as he'd feared, as Catherine Helena Watson was a very interesting and challenging specimen.

But as much information and enjoyment he got out of spending with her, his favorite moments came from simply watching father and daughter together. Today, however, two of the regular doctors at Bart's had called in informing that they were unavailable, meaning that the remaining locum doctors such as John had to fill in for them. On top of everything the constant drizzling rain that had enveloped London for the past two weeks had produced many sick patients who were all determined to flood clinics and hospitals alike asking for treatment for everything from the sniffles to pneumonia.

Without a second thought John had phoned Sherlock around midday and informed him he wouldn't be coming home that evening.

'I probably won't be home until tomorrow. This place is swamped, and I really can't leave until things get under control.'

"I see." Sherlock spoke into the phone, although on the other side of the city John could hear the unasked question of 'What do I do?'

'Don't worry Sherlock, you know I fully trust you with Cathy.'

It was a testament to how far they'd come these past few months from those two first days after the detective returned, the way John had come to trust Sherlock.

'Mrs. Hudson will make dinner and lunch tomorrow, I called her already and she said it was fine, and breakfast is simple enough; all you need is to give her a bowl of cereal and she'll be fine.'

Everyday John went off to work he left Sherlock in charge of Cathy, although Mrs. Hudson was thankfully around to take care of the more domestic aspects of childcare such as meals and bathing times. Whenever the detective was busy with a case, little Catherine would stay in her flat, and though John always left explicit orders that she did not bake the child any sweets, he always returned home to find a very hyperactive two year old.

"Do you want to speak with her?"

'Yes please, thanks Sherlock.'

"Catherine, your father wants to speak with you." The toddler had climbed onto the sofa where Sherlock was sitting talking with John and was practically crawling over him in her effort to listen in on the call.

"John, I believe your daughter thinks she's a monkey by the way she's intent on climbing over me."

Cathy laughed merrily as he said this, "Gimmie!" she yelled excitedly.

Shaking his head at her antics and slightly perplex that he wasn't annoyed, he handed her the phone, carefully picking her up and repositioning her in a better position on his lap. Cathy leaned back against his chest absentmindedly.

"Daddy! Uncle Sh'rlock says I'm a monkey!"

'Tell him he's a monkey's uncle then.' John answered with a snort.

"Daddy says you're a monkey uncle." She looked up at him as she informed him, slight confusion on her face as she clearly didn't understand her father's words. Nonetheless, the detective responded with a chuckle of his own while shaking his head.

'Listen, Cathy, I have something important to tell you, can you hear me babe?'

"Mmhmm."

'Look, there are a lot of very sick people at the hospital today and I have to help them get better.'

"'cus you're a d'tor."

'That's right, but it means I can't come home tonight, I have to stay till tomorrow.'

"Oh… I can't see you?"

'No baby, not tonight. I'm sorry love. But you'll have your uncle Sherlock with you. You won't even know I'm gone.'

Sherlock looked down as Cathy went silent and saw the small pout that graced her lower lip. Her face was pulled into a frown, although if he had to guess, he'd say she wasn't yet capable of expressing the emotions going through her – disappointment, sadness, selfishness. That was why he was surprised by her response.

Sighing in a very 'Watson' manner, she replied "Ok daddy, come back soon ok.

Catherine Helena Watson was almost three years old, and yet she continually behaved in ways that were most unusual for a child of her age. John had explained, when Sherlock mentioned this to him, that he theorized she hadn't had the chance to go through the normal 'selfishness' period of the terrible two's. After her mother's passing, and John's subsequent fall into depression, Cathy's emotional intelligence had developed faster than in regular children. It seemed to be an inherited Watson trait, to be in tuned with other people's feelings, even though she didn't comprehend them.

It made Sherlock wrap his arms loosely around her small frame and place a kiss on the top of her head.

'I'll be home as soon as I can, I love you sweetie.'

"Bye, I love you too daddy."

Wordlessly she handed the phone back to the detective who took it from her small hand and pressed it against his ear again.

"John?"

'I'll try to call again later in the evening ok. Make sure she…. you know… has a nice day, and you have a nice day too ok.'

"Stop worrying John. Go help patients, save lives and all that doctor stuff, we geniuses and aspiring geniuses will manage." He replied, trying to lighten the mood, mostly for Cathy's sake.

The two said their goodbyes and Sherlock hung up the phone.

Cathy tilted her head up to look at Sherlock. "I'm a genius?"

"Aspiring genius, but we'll get you there, don't worry." He said with a grin. He was determined to keep her mind away from the fact that John wouldn't be coming home tonight, and he couldn't think of a better way to do it than to engage in what he called his 'child genius experiments'.

At first John had been against anything regarding his daughter and the word 'experiment', until Sherlock explained that it was only a lose term of convenience and that he wouldn't be performing anything dangerous on the girl. On the contrary, his 'experiments' consisted of different learning tests and games he'd been reading about that developed thinking skills in children.

Inspired by his spectacular mistake of taking Cathy to a crime scene, Sherlock had determined to read up on child development, and had discovered, modified and then applied the different things he'd learned. Most of the time he would simply talk with her, explaining things in simple but proper language. He'd talk about his cases – the ones without dead people in them, or if they did, he changed them to 'people who were hurt by bad men', which wasn't entirely off the mark – he'd talk about science and the world, he'd talk about music. In short, he'd explain and show her about the things that interested him, the way he did with John, and she, like her father, clung to his every word.

The only thing John had asked him was to let her learn at her own pace, no matter how frustrated that might make him.

"I don't want you to feel bad when she doesn't meet your expectations," he'd told Sherlock, "she's only two after all, but I especially don't want her to feel pressured or inadequate. As such you will never insult her intelligence."

"Please John, she's a brilliant child. Why would I ever do that?"

John's face had softened tiredly, "You have a tendency to insult readily Sherlock. I.. don't think you notice it half the time. In the last half hour you've called me an idiot, referred to me as 'average', and asked me twice how I can stand living inside my own limited head. Personally, while it's a bit funny at first, being thought of as stupid does become tiring eventually."

Sherlock had remained silent, going over the last half hour over in his head with a vague recollection of what John said.

"I…I don't believe you're stupid John." he whispered softly.

"I know Sherlock, which is why I stay here, which is why I care about you, which is why I have no qualms about raising my daughter with you. But she won't know; she won't be able to tell, and I don't want her hurt."

Sherlock had nodded his head, vowing to both John and himself to be more conscious of the things he said, at least where Catherine was concerned. And if that meant he had more pent up bile to throw Anderson and Donovan's way, well neither the detective nor the doctor were terribly concerned with that.

Now Sherlock looked at his young charge and smiled eagerly at her.

"Right, music experiments!" He picked her up effortlessly, crossed the room with her, and sat her on John's desk by the window. He then picked his violin from its stand and propped it on his shoulder and under his chin. He began one of her favorite pieces, stopping every once in a while to point out some special detail about the piece, or ask her to provide information he'd taught her previously. And thus passed most of their day, with music, stories, puzzles and brain teasers; and when Cathy grew tired in the afternoon, as children do, he watched her as she slept on the sofa although he pretended he was working on a monograph on various types of foreign odorless poisonous powders and how they could be detected.

That night, after Mrs. Hudson's magnificent dinner and another call from John, Sherlock let the girl watch television and at seven, as her father had instructed, he put her to bed.

"Uncle Sh'rlock, will daddy be 'ere tomorrow?" she said sleepily.

"Not when you wake up. He'll return tomorrow in the afternoon."

"He'll be tir'd, won't 'e?" Cathy yawned again.

"Most likely, but he'll want to spend time with you, so don't worry. Your father is absurdly attached to you." He told her, a small smile playing on his lips making her giggle slightly, even though she wasn't sure she got the meaning of his words.

"Sleep now." He commanded softly.

She nodded and closed her eyes, and Sherlock ran a hand through her red-blond hair before turning off her bedside lamp and exiting the room. Returning to the living room he noted that the rain wasn't showing any signs of letting up; if anything it was building up to a proper storm. How bloody inconvenient, he thought. Storms had a tendency to scare away potential criminals; it seemed even London's crooks didn't like the lousy weather, which meant less work for the detective. Well, maybe someone would get creative and give him a nice puzzle; not that he had any ill will toward any victims.

Picking up a new book he'd gotten on forensic anthropology, Sherlock set to spend another sleepless night. He'd barely done anything exhaustive that day, he didn't have any cases to entertain himself with, and he'd already finished writing his paper. Besides, he could use the excuse that he was babysitting to justify not sleeping tonight. Sleep was so boring after all.

He was therefore surprised when the ringing of his mobile woke him up from his slumber. Jerking upright, he discovered his book was resting opened on his chest where it had fallen when he dozed off. Sherlock picked up his phone and checked the time; it was just past ten. Outside the storm was in full bloom, complete with lightning and thunder. Pressing the 'answer' button, and noting it was John's number, the detective pressed the device to his ear.

"Hey." he said most ineloquently.

"Sherlock, is it storming in your end of town?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed at the strange question.

"Yes, it is. Why?"

"Sherlock, you've got to go check on Cathy. I take it you put her to bed already?"

"Hours ago, why, what's wrong?"

"I just noticed the storm over here, it's pretty vile, and the thing is Cathy is deathly afraid of storms. I didn't think the rain would become this bad. I should have checked the forecast before I left. If I'd known I would have told you, or found a way to get back home, or-"

"John! You're rambling. Take a breath and calm down."

Sherlock heard the older man take a calming breath.

"Listen Sherlock, Cathy is afraid of thunder and lightning. I'm surprised she hasn't come running to you by now."

"She was asleep before it started, she probably hasn't even noticed it."

"Please check on her. I.. the thing is.. you see…"

"John?" he asked gently. The relationship between the two of them had been getting better and stronger every day for the last two months Sherlock had been back. Ever since his initial breakdown, John had been steadily improving. Even so, Sherlock still occasionally found himself walking on eggshells, and being uncharacteristically mindful of John's state of mind. Sometimes he would catch the doctor staring at a picture of his wife on his computer, or watching his daughter with a sad smile on his face, and Sherlock would refrain from making any improper comments or unnecessary requests.

Now he detected what he'd deemed as an 'emotional alarm' in John's voice. He'd established this mental alarm early on when he returned in order to catch himself in time before he accidently hurt the doctor.

He heard the man sigh on the other side of the line.

"Mary was taken to the hospital on a night like this. It was a nasty storm, and I think it left an impact on Cathy. She was barely over a year old, but it was the last time she saw her mother. I don't think she even remembers it; in fact I'm almost certain she doesn't. But ever since, storms upset her very much. So please, just check on her."

"Of course." Sherlock got up and started heading toward the hallway quickly. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock could almost hear the sad smile on John's face. "I don't think I like storms either."

Sherlock didn't have a response to that.

"I'll leave you to it, ok. I'll call you in the morning, but don't hesitate to call me if you have any problems. Oh, hot chocolate helps, just so you know." John added added as an afterthought before he hung up.

Shoving the phone into one of his pockets, the detective made his way to his niece's room, pausing to open the door as slowly and soundlessly as possible to avoid waking her up should she still be asleep. What he saw made him abandon his caution and rush across the room.

Outside the storm was raging, bright flashes illuminating the room intermittently followed by thunderous claps that shook the walls. In one such flash, Sherlock saw the outlined figure of Cathy sitting on her large bed, curled up on herself, her tiny shoulders shaking silently.

Quickly coming to her side, Sherlock turned her bedside lamp on, startling the child. Her head snapped up just as another thunderous boom rattled the room. Without a second thought Cathy launched herself at her uncle, clinging to his neck for dear life.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around her instinctively, holding her close and feeling her tears as they trickled down his collarbone. The child was trembling like a leaf with fear, and still she didn't make a sound. Her reactions never ceased to astonish Sherlock who knew a frightened child would most likely have been blubbering and wailing loudly by now. Yet set silent weeping was somehow more heartbreaking to the detective. He'd only recently discovered how much he cared for John and now Cathy, and now that newly formed portion of his heart twisted at seeing his niece is such distress. He was overpowered by a fierce and irrational protective instinct to shield her from everything that frightened her, and he marveled at his own reaction.

"Helena, dearest, you're safe, everything is fine." Sherlock crooned, using her middle name that only he used; the name he'd unknowingly given her years before she was even born.

Another lightning strike followed by a peal of thunder made Cathy jump and tighten her grip around Sherlock. Resting his cheek against her red curls, Sherlock thought about how to fix this. His options, as far as he could see, seemed to center on offering comfort – hold Cathy, maybe get her some hot chocolate as John suggested, and wait for the storm to pass – but that wouldn't work long term, and if there's anything Sherlock detested it was not fixing a problem properly. He needed a way to stop her from being afraid, but what?

Suddenly Sherlock had a flashback, a forgotten memory from his childhood that he had filed away as irrelevant into some remote corner of his brain sprung into the forefront of his mind. He saw himself as a five-year old, trembling with cold and fear as thunder resounded through the drafty old mansion that was supposed to be home. He had pulled himself into a corner of his room, arms around his lanky knees, as he rocked himself back and forth. Suddenly a twelve-year old Mycroft was crouching in front of him, pulling him up into a hug and dragging him to the window. Outside the storm raged loudly, rain pattering noisily against the windowpanes and monstrous thunder piercing through.

'You've nothing to be afraid of, Sherlock' said the young boy, arms wrapped around the smaller child.

"Helena?" Sherlock shifted the girl so that he could see her tear-stained face. "Do you trust me?"

Eyes full of fear, Catherine's blue eyes looked straight into Sherlock's grey ones, and she nodded hesitantly.

"I'm going to teach you something, something I learned a long time ago."

Sherlock hoisted Cathy up on his hip and took her downstairs to the living room until he was standing in front of the large windows facing the street. The light from the orange streetlamps outside reflected off the rain occasionally illuminated brightly by lightning.

Catherine's shivering intensified but she didn't voice any protests. Sherlock plucked the afghan from the sofa and draped it around the both of them, as though it provided some sort of protection.

"You have nothing to be afraid of, my sweet." He said, echoing words spoken in the distant past. "Lightning and thunder are actually very exciting, once you know what they are. They're only scary when you don't know them well, but afterwards, they can be a lot of fun. Lightning is a spark of electricity" he begun, simplifying the facts for her benefit, "which results in a bright flash in the sky. It's quite beautiful to behold, like a streamer of light. Look."

Sherlock pointed to the night sky outside, the dim lighting inside making it easy to see. Just then, over the rooftops, a crack of lightning pierced the sky, and Cathy jumped in Sherlock's arms but kept her eyes fixed on the event. As he'd imagined, she had never actually seen the lightning, only the flash of light.

"Now, don't be frightened, I'm here." he said, placing his chin atop her head as the thunder rolled in. Catherine's eyes widened, her hands clamped on top of her ears and she shrank back into Sherlock's chest.

"Shh."

"Why does it do that?" she whispered, her voice full of tears. Sherlock was secretly proud that she asked. It meant that her curiosity outweighed her fear, if only a little. It meant he had a chance.

"When the lighting strikes it is so hot it heats the air around it and makes a shock wave. You know when you take a bath and you hit your hand on the water and make waves in every direction?"

Cathy nodded her assent.

"Well here, when the air gets hot, it moves very quickly, but it is so fast that it makes a very loud noise."

As he was saying this, another lightning bolt had struck, and now thunder reverberated after it.

"It's scary." she confessed in a tremulous voice.

"No, no, my dear, it doesn't have to be scary. It's exciting, it can be very exciting. You see, for every lightning strike there is thunder, and if you count the seconds it takes between the lightning flash and the thunder then you know how close the lightning was. Light is very fast, it moves faster than anything else, and sound can't keep up."

Cathy looked up at him as she did whenever he said something interesting. "Why?"

Sherlock smiled, "Because light is just too fast. If they are both close, you see it and you hear it at the same time, but if they're very far away, light moves so fast you will see it, but you won't hear it yet. The sound will catch up late. I'll show you, wait for the next lightning bolt."

They didn't have to wait long and Cathy watched enthralled as the long ragged white line cut the night sky in the distance.

"Now, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, n-" Thunder rolled in, silencing Sherlock's words, but now when Cathy jumped it was more subdued.

"Eight seconds, that means it's almost 3 kilometers away. Can you count?"

Cathy shook her head.

"Here, give me your hands." he said, prying her hands from around his neck while holding her with just one hand. "Go like this," he waited for another lightning strike and then proceeded to uncurl each of her fingers as he counted. "One, two, tree, four, five, six, seven, eig-" This time when the thunder boomed, Catherine gave a little start accompanied by a tiny excited squeak.

"See, this time it was hardly eight at all. That means it's closer. The storm might pass right over us." Sherlock's voice was bright and animated, hoping to infect her with his excitement and thus make her forget her fears.

"You do it this time." Sherlock placed both of his hands under her, moving her to his left hip in order to shift his footing. "Steady, wait for it," Lightning illuminated the two of them and Cathy quickly began ticking off her fingers. "Not too fast now, slowly… that's it." Cathy was two fingers into her second hand when thunder boomed across the sky.

"How much is this?" She asked, holding up her hands to his face.

"Seven."

"That's closer than b'fore, right!"

"Yes." Sherlock's lips curled into one of the wide smiles he reserved just for her. "Oh! There's another one! Quickly!"

Cathy rapidly began ticking off the seconds while Sherlock kept silent count along with her, and they both jumped when only five seconds passed between lightning and thunder. Cathy giggled hesitantly and Sherlock chuckled openly, planting a tender kiss on her chubby cheek.

"See? Isn't it exciting?"

"Again, again!" she bounced in his arms.

Sherlock chuckled at her antics, watching as she counted the seconds from another lightning strike, uttering a delighted squeal when the thunder proceeded even sooner than before. Looking at her, he once again cast his mind back into his memories.

'You see Sherlock, isn't it exciting?' Said his twelve-year old brother, arms wrapped around him from behind as they started at the storm that raged across the property's grounds. Mycroft had taught his little brother how to calculate the distance between the lightning strike and their location from the amount of time it took the thunder to reach them. The genius five year old reveled in the sudden and neat discovery that he could tell how close or far a storm was from sound alone.

Of course, Sherlock knew he couldn't teach that to his two-year old niece, not yet at least, but he couldn't hide his proud smile as he watched her excited eyes look expectantly for the lightning before quickly counting off her fingers for the awaited thunder. He had turned her fears into an adventure by giving her a semblance of control over it. How could she fear something she was participating in?

Eventually the lightning and thunder became almost simultaneous, and Sherlock knew from experience that disappointment and even fear could creep back in at that point. Therefore, without missing a beat, he changed gears in his strategy, deciding to make use of John's suggestion.

"Right, it won't be interesting again until the storm begins to pass. I think some hot cocoa would be in order." Sherlock deposited Catherine in one of the kitchen chairs and proceeded to rummage around the cupboards for two mugs, which he placed side by side on the counter. Filling the kettle with water, he set it to boil while spooning some cocoa powder into the two mugs.

Sitting down in front of Cathy to wait for the kettle to boil, Sherlock regarded his niece carefully. Her tears were gone, and all that remained as testimony of her earlier distress is a slight reddish puffiness in her cheeks. The detective didn't quite understand why, being so new to his affectionate feelings, but he constantly felt a need to hold this child, kiss her and make all her fears go away. He tried to contain it, for the sake of his reputation and what he considered his mental health, and yet it was becoming ever more present each day.

She looked so calm and peaceful now, happy even, that Sherlock's heart, the one everyone always thought was nonexistent, swelled at the thought that she was happy thanks to him.

When the kettle boiled, Sherlock got up and poured it into the two mugs, topping it off with a little bit of cold milk.

"Be careful, it's quite hot."

Cathy nodded and blew noisily into her mug. Sherlock almost said something about manners before he remembered that John had chastised him about the exact same thing not two weeks prior.

"Is it good?" he asked as she took a sip.

The tiny Watson shrugged one shoulder, nodded, and commented offhandedly "Daddy's is better" making Sherlock choke momentarily on his drink. So much for sparing other people's feelings and emotional awareness.

Sherlock noted that the storm seemed to be letting up rather than drifting away, which probably meant he wouldn't be able to continue what they were doing. He waited until Cathy was half way through her mug before standing up and offering her his hand.

"Come, bring your cup."

Cathy climbed down from the table and stretched her hands to pick up the mug but it was too high for her. She considered getting back up on the chair in order to reach it, but Sherlock simply picked it up along with his own.

Taking her small hand, he directed her to the sofa and placed the mugs momentarily on the coffee table. Picking up the discarded afghan, Sherlock sat down on the sofa, picked Cathy and placed her in his lap and draped the soft throw around them. He then handed her her mug with a murmured 'Please don't spill it' warning to which she chuckled lightly.

He then proceeded to tell her about how his brother had been the one to teach him about the lightning and thunder.

"Uncle Myc's nice, right?" she said sleepily.

Sherlock took her empty mug and placed it alongside his on the small table as he thought about her words. For so long he had wanted to hate his brother for the things that had happened between them. When had they stopped being as close as they had been in their childhoods, and when had their enmity decreased as adults?

"He's nice, when he wants to be. But don't tell him I said that."

Cathy giggled softly, "'S'neat to 'ave a brother." Her eyes were drooping slowly.

Sherlock smiled sadly at her, "Sometimes." He shifted them so that his legs were stretched across the sofa with Cathy warmly cocooned in his arms. "S'nicer to have someone to teach." He mumbled, also succumbing to sleep.

And that's how John found them in the morning. He came into the flat carrying a bag of food, and stopped short in the doorway as he stared at his daughter and best friend asleep on the couch. Sherlock's head was resting sideways on the backrest, his tousled black curls splayed in every direction, and a light snore coming from his throat. Catherine had partly escaped Sherlock's embrace and her legs and arms jutted in every direction.

Carefully, John placed the bag of takeout on the floor, whipped out his phone and took a picture of his sleeping family. He then picked up his food and tiptoed quietly into the kitchen.

He wasn't as quiet as he thought, for as he was busy taking out and dividing the breakfast he'd bought, Sherlock came into the kitchen and sat at the table.

"Did I wake you?"

The detective yawned widely and shook his head. "I was starting to awaken anyways." As he'd thought from watching John, having a child sleep on you wasn't pleasant, and yet it wasn't as horrible as he'd previously thought either.

"How was last night?"

"Everything was fine. What are you doing here? You said you wouldn't return till later today."

"Yeah, Drs. Matthews and Spencer were able to make it in this morning, and the influx of patients started dwindling in the early hours of the morning, so they dismissed those of us who'd been working since yesterday morning. I brought breakfast. Tell me about last night."

Sherlock did, and John listened attentively as he continued preparing breakfast, putting his daughter's portion in the microwave so it wouldn't get too cold too fast. He passed the younger man his plate and sat down to eat as well.

"I imagined comfort wouldn't be enough to dispel her fears, but if I gave her a tool that made her part of it, it would allow her to conquer her fear. Comfort alone implies there is something to be afraid of, but playing with it implies you are stronger than that which you fear, right?

"That's very good Sherlock. I never thought of doing that." The doctor said softly over his breakfast.

"She was younger back then, likely it wouldn't have made much difference, and holding her through the night was probably the best course of action."

"Thanks, and thank you for last night. It can't have been easy for you."

Sherlock frowned, mulling over John's words. Did they mean that the doctor wasn't confident in Sherlock's abilities to offer comfort? No, or otherwise he wouldn't have left Cathy in his care. Was it difficult for him?

"Surprisingly, it wasn't as difficult as I would have imagined." Sherlock answered his own question and John's unspoken one.

Their breakfast was almost finished when a wide awake two-year old burst eagerly into the kitchen with cries of 'Daddy, daddy you're here!' John picked her up and showered her with kisses, asking about her time with Sherlock and trying to convince her to eat some breakfast.

Sherlock excused himself to go take a shower, and as he left, he heard snippets of Cathy's excited retelling of last night's events. As he gathered his things and went into the bathroom, he thought about John's own admission that he didn't enjoy storms either and the cause behind it.

The trick of counting between lightning and thunder would not work on John, he knew, who was already aware of it. On the other hand, Sherlock considered, perhaps the next time a storm rolled in, Cathy would take her father to the window and play her newly learned game with him, and the activity itself would be enough to supplant John's unhappy memories with more pleasant ones.

The End

A/N: It was a lot of fun to write Cathy again, as well as Sherlock's interaction with her. I hope that I was able to convey how strange it still is for him, and not have him too out-of-character. This story is inspired in my own mom, who taught be this very thing when I was very very little. I remember standing by the screen door, barely seeing out through it, and counting with my mom. So, I hope you liked the story ^_^!