Lily went to bed early last night, and so woke up early this morning, then not able to get back to sleep. She got up to make some tea instead, and as she got the kettle, she checked her phone. She had an email from her publisher.

The subject line read: 'New Book?'

Brows furrowing, Lily began reading the email and finds that, she was, in fact, being asked to write a new book. The last one did so well, and it seemed like it's time for a new one, if she had any ideas. But she didn't.

She thought about it, writing a new book. It'll only be a children's book, of course, but writing one of those is more difficult than people might think. Especially if it rhymes, which her first one did. Getting an idea, she knew, would be the hardest part. But if it does as well as the last one, it would be nice to do more small signings and get to meet her little readers, and the extra money wouldn't hurt, either.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts, and she left her phone on the counter before hurrying up the steps, wondering who in the world it could be.

Sherlock, John, and Rosie.

Sherlock and John had an early case and Mrs. Hudson was out, so they asked Lily to watch Rosie, though John seemed particularly apologetic about it. Lily didn't mind at all, of course, though John insisted she take his money. Rosie was half asleep — and still is —and she hasn't had breakfast yet. Lily carries her and her bag down the stairs after Sherlock and John are gone.

She puts Rosie on the couch next to her bag. "Lily?" she asks.

Lily smiles. "Hey, Rosie. Your dad and Sherlock had to go to work, so I'm gonna watch you until they get back, okay?"

"Okay." She's still waking up, but she's starting to smile.

"And your dad told me you haven't had breakfast yet, so... do you want to help me make some cinnamon buns?"

Her eyes brighten. "Yes!"

"Okay, just let me get dressed-" Lily is still in her pajamas "-and then we'll get started. Here, I'll turn the TV on." She turns on a kid's channel, then hurries to her room to quickly change. When she gets back, they begin making the cinnamon buns, these ones yeast-less so it won't take as long. Rosie helps as far as she can, and they don't look exactly pretty, but they taste good. They make four and save two for Sherlock and John, for whenever they return.

"Alright, how would you like to help me water the flowers in the garden?" Lily asks, and Rosie brightens again, maybe from the way Lily said it.

"Yes," she says, nodding, so they go out, and Rosie helps her water the garden, which is beginning to sprout. When they return to the apartment, they play with Rosie's toys until Sherlock and John return, which surprisingly is only a few hours after they left.

John is leaning on Sherlock, looking worn out, all his weight on one foot. Sherlock grimaces. "We had a run in with a bat. John fell down some stairs."

"Oh, my gosh," Lily says, shocked and concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Sprained ankle," John replies. "Some bruises, too, but I'll live."

"Oh, my- is there anything I can do?" Lily asks.

Sherlock shrugs. "Not really. We just went to the doctor. He has to ice it, take pain meds, and wrap it. It'll heal in a couple weeks or so."

"If I stay off it," John adds.

"Is there anything you need, anything I can give you?" Lily asks, desperate to help.

"The cinnamon buns," Rosie reminds her.

"Oh! Right, yes — we made cinnamon buns for breakfast this morning, and we saved you some. I'll, uh, I'll go get those, and I'll carry everything up the stairs for you. You go on. I got Rosie."

"You really don't have to worry about it," John says.

"No, no, it's fine."

"Let her help, John," Sherlock insists. "We need it."

Lily rushes down the stairs and grabs the pan the cinnamon buns are still in, then packs and slings Rosie's bag over her shoulder and picks Rosie up in her free arm. She doesn't even think to shut the door on her way out, which is lucky, as her keys are still in the apartment.

"Is Daddy gonna be okay?" Rosie asks, sounding worried and practically breaking Lily's heart.

"Yes, he'll be just fine," Lily assures her automatically.

Sherlock and John, meanwhile, are slowly making their way upstairs. "Do you want to go to the sitting room or your room?"

"Sitting room is fine," John replies. "I'll try going up to mine once I've taken some pain meds and iced this a bit."

They turn into the sitting room, where John sits down in his chair. Lily sets Rosie and her bag down, then doesn't know what to do with the pan for a moment. Sherlock grabs a chair and a pillow so John can prop his ankle up.

Lily thinks of a way she can be of use. "Here, I'll get some ice." She goes into the kitchen, then opens the freezer. To her horror, there's a human hand and eyeballs in a jar, amongst other things that are decidedly not for human consumption, but could actually be human themselves. She slams the door shut. "You- You have- your freezer-"

"It's an experiment," Sherlock and John say simultaneously, the latter tiredly.

"It's for work," Sherlock adds, heading into the kitchen himself with a sigh. "I'll get ice."

"Make- Make sure you wrap it... in a towel," Lily absently says, still reeling from the shock Sherlock's experiment just gave her. She looks back at the pan, which is still in her hand. Cinnamon buns. "Where are your plates?"

Sherlock points at the cabinet. "In there."

Lily pulls out two and distractedly hunts for the utensils until Sherlock directs her, then she puts a cinnamon bun on each plate. "I'll just heat these up for you- do you want them heated up? And I'll make tea. I can make tea. John, do you want some tea?"

"You don't have to-"

"It's fine." Her tone betrays that, in a way, it's not. Or, well, she isn't.

Sherlock, towel-wrapped ice in hand, walks over to John and places the ice on his ankle. Lily pays little mind to him, in a frazzled state, putting a cinnamon bun in the microwave, then trying to punch in a number. Thirty seconds? No. Ten seconds? Twelve.

"Lily," Sherlock says, his tone approaching a gentleness, but also stern, deep, getting her attention. Like a song that jolts you out of a doze.

The microwave now running, she looks at him. "Yes?"

"Just stop for a moment and take a deep breath."

"Why?" The microwave beeps, and she jumps.

"Because you're in a panicked state brought on by worry and shock," he says calmly. "Take a moment, and breathe."

She stops, breathing, her head in her hands and her elbows the on counter as she processes the last five minutes. "That was a human hand."

"Yes."

"And eyeballs."

"Yes."

"Where did you get them?"

"St. Bart's. I have a friend who works there. She provides me with... things to experiment on. For work. I'm testing a few things, that's all."

She takes another breath, looks at him again, guilt and embarrassment flooding her. "I'm so sorry."

Then, he seems confused, betrayed by the twitch of his brow. "For what?"

"For- For intruding like this, and freaking out in the middle of your kitchen-"

"You're not intruding, and it's perfectly understandable," John pipes up. "If anything, we intruded on you this morning — which reminds me, I owe you some money."

"No, you don't," Lily replies, now calmly taking the cinnamon bun out of the microwave and bringing it to him with a fork. "Don't worry about it. Really." She turns to Sherlock. "You want yours heated up?"

"I- Sure, yes. That's... fine," he replies. Lily does the same for him, bringing it to him, too, even though his ankle is perfectly fine.

"This is amazing, Lily, thank you," John says.

"Rosie helped with these," she replies. "It wasn't all me."

John smiles at his daughter. "These are wonderful, Ro." Sherlock echoes the sentiment. Rosie beams.

"Does anyone want tea?" Lily asks, returning to the kitchen. "Oh, and you need pain meds."

"I'll get them," Sherlock says, though he sounds reluctant. "John, where are they?"

"In the medicine cabinet in the bathroom," John replies. He tells him which ones to get — some over-the-counter ones — describing the bottle while Sherlock rummages. Lily manages to find the kettle during that time and starts making tea, before realizing she doesn't know where anything in the kitchen is, besides the plates, the utensils, the hand, and the eyeballs. When Sherlock returns, he points her to everything she needs, but gets the mugs down for her, as they're in the top cabinet.

Lily asks the both of them how they take their tea, makes three cups, and carries two into the sitting room for Sherlock and John before going back for her own.

"Thank you for this, Lily, really," John says. "You didn't have to do all this."

"It's alright. I wanted to help. And I'm happy to do whatever it is you need of me. Really, just call if there's anything I can help with. I've got nothing else to do, anyway." It's then that the email from her publisher comes to her mind, and she thinks on this for a moment, absently sitting on the couch.

John looks at her quizzically. "Really?"

It snaps Lily out of her thoughts. "School doesn't start until Autumn; I'm not working."

"You look... thoughtful," Sherlock says.

"Oh, well, I got an email this morning about writing a children's story, but that's all. I don't know if I'm going to do it..."

"A children's story? Like a... story book?"

"With pictures and everything. Something for Rosie's age group, maybe a little above." Rosie is playing with her toys at the moment, though she looks up when she hears her name.

"Well, that doesn't sound too hard," John says.

"It's harder than you think."

"You've written one before?"

"Only the one. And I started with an idea. It was just a little story I used to tell my students, and a parent suggested I publish it. Now, the publisher wants another one, but... I'm truly out of ideas. I'll have to think on it, I suppose." She thoughtfully sips her tea.

Sherlock looks at her for a moment, and Lily wonders what he's thinking. Finally, he says, "You could write about fairies."

Sherlock Holmes, while she hasn't known him very long, is the last person she ever thought would suggest something like that. "Fairies?"

"Rosie says you know them."

"That's a secret!" Rosie shouts. "Now the fairies will go away."

Sherlock looks surprised at his blunder. "My apologies."

"No, they'll stay right where they are," Lily assures Rosie. "They want to know you, too, so it's okay."

"What about Lock?"

Lily leans forward and stage-whispers, "They think he's interesting. They like his hair." Rosie laughs at that, and Lily smiles at her laughter. Rosie looks at Sherlock as if she knows a secret and laughs again.

Sherlock shakes his head playfully at her, then looks back at Lily, though he doesn't say anything. As if he's thinking about something again. Lily, feels vulnerable but reminds herself who it is, what he's doing, smiles at him over her cup of tea. "Reading anything interesting?"

"You've been gardening."

"Rosie and I watered the plants, yes."

"And you're wondering where your dish is?"

Her brows furrow. "My what?"

"Well, that was a complete guess, anyway," Sherlock says, waving it off. After a moment of thought, Lily realizes.

"You mean the dish I brought the oatmeal cookies up on? I wasn't even thinking about it."

"It's in the sink," Sherlock supplies. "We finished the cookies yesterday. John just hasn't washed your dish yet."

"You don't need to wash it."

"It's the least we can do," John says.

"Well, keep my dish as long as you like, anyway. I have plenty more."

"We might have it until my ankle heals, because Sherlock certainly won't wash the dishes," John replies, looking pointedly at Sherlock, who shrugs again.

"Just wait until Mrs. Hudson gets back," he says. "It'll be cleaned by then."

John sighs. "That's true."

"I can honestly wash it myself," Lily insists, but John shakes his head.

"We'll get it washed," he says.

There's a lull in conversation, then Lily, cradling the warm cup in her hands, asks, "So, what exactly happened with the case this morning?"

Sherlock launches into the whole story, with occasional interjections from John, insisting Sherlock is telling parts wrong — particularly his tumble down the stairs. Lily feels only sympathy for John over what happened, but Sherlock is incredibly amused. John just rolls his eyes.

Soon after, Lily takes the empty tea cups, washes them while John protests, then takes her dish and her leave, returning to her apartment and the email she received this morning.

Fairies, Sherlock said.

There might be something to that.