Catching the Ghost (Sheriarty/Jimlock) 18+

Chapter 1

The case was solved, Jim Moriarty's ghost had finally been laid to rest. The little cult of copycats who had used the criminal's image for their own gains were scattered, on the run. Running scared. Served them right. Pathetic boring people using Moriarty's face to further their own tedious ambitions. As if they had a right to him. Sherlock had no interest in hunting them down further. Mycroft's people could handle the clean up. The only interesting element had been the discovery of Moriarty's right hand man, Moran, who had set loose the little cult of followers in order to mask his own crimes. Interesting, but not as interesting as the mastermind himself.

Once Moran was in MI6 custody, the rest was boring. A gaggle of unoriginal people, emulating a man they could never hope to match. Sherlock was tired of it. Disgusted. If he saw one more person dressed up like Jim, trying to speak as they would imagine he had spoken, faking an irish accent of all things, Sherlock was certain he'd murder someone again and wind up right back on a plane for exile.

"Sherlock, she likes you," Mary said, her hand touching his forearm.


Sherlock blinked into Mary's smiling face then looked down at the baby in his arms. John's baby. She had his eyes. "She's three days old, hardly qualified to be a judge of character."

Mrs. Hudson cooed at the infant, hovering at Sherlock's arm. When had she come in? "Oh Sherlock," she said, tickling the smiling baby's chin. "Children have an instinct for these things."


"I'm sure." He handed the baby over to the woman, uncrossing his long legs to pace to the fireplace.

Mrs. Hudson cradled the cooing infant and smiled knowingly at Sherlock. "Someday you'll have one of your own. You'll see."


Sherlock took a sharp breath to retort when John emerged from the kitchen with a glass of wine and stopped him with a look. The detective released the breath and grimaced tightly.

John nodded briefly, then resumed his entrance into the room, handing Mary the glass of wine. She took a sip and melted against John's armchair. "Oh. That's lovely," she sighed.

"You should avoid breastfeeding for three or four hours after drinking that Mary," Sherlock said, running a finger over his mantle place with a frown. Mrs. Hudson has been dusting again.

"Sherlock," John said, shaking his head, but smiling. Smiling John was good.

"For a woman of your weight it will take that long to -"


"I know Sherlock," Mary said, taking another sip. She smiled at him again kindly. "I promise I'll be careful with her."

Sherlock glanced at the baby then back at Mary, one of the most deadly women he knew. He met John's curious gaze then looked away. An adrenaline junky and an assassin, careful wasn't the word that came to mind, but he supposed he wasn't really one to judge.


Footsteps up the stairway. Two sets. A hard tread followed by a softer one. He knew before he saw them emerge. Lestrade coming straight from work, Molly behind him holding a present wrapped with paper featuring an appalling cartoon rendition of the tortoise and the hare. The stories we tell children. He straightened, gaze wandering toward a worn copy of fairytales on his bookshelf sitting next to that horrid hat. The stories we tell.

He jumped when he felt someone touch his back. He blinked rapidly as he focused on Molly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked how it felt to be a godfather," Molly said. She smiled at him too. Why was everyone smiling so much today?

The baby hiccuped and Mrs. Hudson tittered with joy.

Oh right. That.

"Why are people so determined to fixate on infants. They can't do anything interesting yet. Barely sentient," he grumbled.