This Is Real

Chapter One

Sherlock and Evelyn had moved out of Baker Street not long after their daughter was born, accepting that the flat, with its small number of bedrooms, was not going to continue working well for a growing family, and Sherlock's anxiety over the publicity of the building had grown stronger with every passing day. Sherlock was still there most days, as 221B now operated as his place of work, an office of sorts. Clients are still directed to the flat and it is the only property the name Sherlock Holmes is attached to, allowing William and Evelyn Holmes to start fresh.

Their current residence, their family home, was a period house in Primrose Hill with a large garden that has its own back gate entrance to Primrose Hill Park. It's situated in the northwest corner of Regents Park with an average of a thirty minute walk, twenty minutes if you take the tube, or an eight minute drive to 221B Baker street. It was also less than a ten minute walk from a top rated nursery and primary school, Mycroft really did his homework. Five bedrooms seemed excessive to John, but Sherlock was adamant they'd be filled. The one at the top of the house had immediately become a lab, decked out with all the correct equipment, meaning Sherlock could continue his experiments without worrying about contaminating anything, or small sticky fingers getting involved.

When on his first ever visit John, in shock, had asked how much the house cost, Sherlock gave a mild wince and told him he didn't want to know. He knew Sherlock had money, and came from money, he was a posh boy, after all, who for the first seven years of his life grew up in a place called Musgrave Hall, for goodness sake. He'd never exactly been frugal either, his wardrobe cost more than John's car, and before he had a vehicle of his own he would choose to take cabs everywhere no matter the cost. When they first became flat mates John should have probably realised he had more money than he let on by the way he behaved with payments for his cases, it was always left with him to deal with because Sherlock cared very little for the cheques he was being handed.

Mycroft practically being the british government obviously helped, too.

At first Evelyn had been skeptical about moving, worried Sherlock might struggle with the change and end up spending all his time at 221B while she and their children lived separately, but she couldn't have been more wrong. Sherlock is home constantly, with the home lab he is popping in throughout cases non stop, doing the nursery pick ups, and has even set Sundays as a day off. No cases, no lab work, no experiments. If a case he's already on overflows to a Sunday he will take a separate day to make up for it. Recently he and John were in Manchester for a week, Sherlock had taken the following week off, spent it at home with his family running the usual errands of a family of four.

Mary rang the bell with the present bag in hand while Rosie was twirling herself around her father. As if the four year old wasn't already hyper enough, she was about to stuff her face with heaven knows what Sherlock has laid out on the table.

The door swung open, Sherlock stood there with a raised eyebrow. "You're late."

"By two minutes. London traffic."

"I hope Mycroft hasn't started a war–" One year old Matthew, settled comfortably on his father's hip, slapped Sherlock over the head to fiddle with the curls already sticking out all ends. "Yes, thank you Matty, I'll just shut up shall I?" Matthew John William Holmes was, quite honestly, the spit of Sherlock in every aspect other than the icy blue eyes of his mother. He had the same dark messy curls as his father, high bone structure peeking out of chubby cheeks and the urge to have the last word. He currently wore a pair of hand me down purple and blue colour block dungaree shorts that were once his sisters, with a party horn clutched tightly in one chubby hand.

"Uncle Lock!"

Sherlock looked down at the child patting his trouser leg, pinching her nose sweetly. "Yes, Rosamund?"