[astudyinshenanigans]

Y/N: Sherlock, could you move up? You're hogging the whole sofa.

Sherlock: I can’t. I’m in the middle of a vital experiment.

Y/N: Right. Well, this "vital" experiment is about to be rudely interrupted by another. I call it, "The Correlative Study Between a Cup of Ice Water and a Genius's Sternum."

Sherlock: *His eyes snap open. He sits up with a huff.* There's no need to be like that.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Sherlock: He's trapped. The rig's motor is disabled and it's a sheer fifty-storey drop. He has nowhere to go. It's over.

John: Right. Good. So we call Lestrade and let the professionals handle it from here.

Y/N: Or... I could get to him.

John: There is no way you can jump across there from here. It's an impossible jump.

Y/N: Not with a running start. I can do it.

John: Are you insane?! No! You absolutely cannot 'do it'! Sherlock, tell them!

Sherlock: Your enthusiasm is noted, Y/N, but your plan is flawed.

Y/N: *Deflated* Aww, why?

Sherlock: Your landing would cause the rig to oscillate, and the shock could send our suspect over the edge. I need him alive for questioning. Your fun is secondary to this.

John: That's your reason?

Sherlock: They could make the jump, John. I'd give them a 92% probability.

[astudyinshenanigans]

John: Come on, let's get this homework done. You have to write about what you want to be when you grow up.

Little Y/N: I’m going to be an Insulting Detective.

John: A… what? You mean a Consulting Detective. Like Sherlock.

Little Y/N: No. An Insulting Detective. It's a real job. I’ve been watching.

John: It is absolutely not a real job.

Little Y/N: Yes, it is. People come here and they’re sad or angry. Sherlock listens for a minute, then he tells them things like their handbag is cheap and their husband is having an affair. He insults them. And then they pay him. His job is insulting people.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Little Y/N: Why is soil brown?

Mycroft: It’s due to the presence of humus and iron oxides, which absorb certain wavelengths of light and reflect others, resulting in the perception of the colour brown.

Little Y/N: Why does it have iron in it?

Mycroft: Because iron is one of the most abundant elements on Earth, formed in the cores of stars and distributed throughout the planet during its formation.

Little Y/N: Why were there stars?

Mycroft: Gravitational collapse of interstellar gas clouds. An inevitable consequence of fundamental physics.

Little Y/N: Why is there physics?

Mycroft: Because the universe is governed by a set of consistent, quantifiable laws. We don't know why the laws themselves exist, only that they do. It is a brute fact. Can we stop now?

Little Y/N: Why?

Mycroft: Because my work requires a level of concentration that is incompatible with a relentless deconstruction of causal reality.

Little Y/N: But why do you have to concentrate?

Mycroft: Sherlock.  Make it stop.

Sherlock: *Sipping his tea* Oh, I don't know, it's fascinating. I think they might actually short-circuit your brain.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Sherlock:  She is fiercely loyal. Bribery won't work, threats are useless. There's no way to get close to her.

John: So we're at a dead end.

Y/N: I'll do it. I have a plan.

Sherlock: Oh, you have a plan, do you? And what masterpiece of subtlety have you concocted this time?

Y/N: I'm going to steal her dog.

John: You're going to what? You can't just steal someone's dog!

Y/N: I'm not going to keep it. I'll steal it, then 'find' it a few days later and return it to her. She'll be overjoyed, grateful, she'll trust me and then she'll tell me things.

Sherlock: That is... the most emotionally manipulative, and frankly brilliant plan I have heard in a while. Come along, John, we have a dog to steal.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Victorian!Sherlock

Y/N: Lord Ashworth has the subtlety of a runaway omnibus. I doubt his threats extend beyond slander in his dreadful gentlemen's club.

Sherlock: Slander is a blunt instrument for a blunt man. However… should he graduate to more direct methods…

Y/N: Yes, Holmes?

Sherlock: *Turns to face them, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass* Should he so much as cause a single scuff on your walking boots, I will not merely expose his criminal enterprise. I will dismantle his life with such surgical precision that the name 'Ashworth' will become a cautionary tale told in whispers. I will uncover the skeletons in his family's closets going back to the Plantagenets, expose his wife's affair with the stable-hand, prove his prize-winning orchid is a cheap forgery, and reveal to the world that his supposed war wound is the result of a drunken tumble down the stairs of a brothel. He will wish for the simple mercy of a noose from Lestrade.

Y/N: You know, for a man who disdains sentiment, you possess a curiously chivalrous streak. It’s remarkably thorough.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Sherlock: That is my chair.

Y/N:  Mmmhmm. It’s very comfortable.

Sherlock: It's not for comfort. It is a finely tuned instrument of deduction. The angle is precisely calibrated for observation, the springs are worn to a specific tension that promotes cerebral blood flow, and the fabric has absorbed trace evidence from over seventy-three unique cases. You are contaminating a decade of data.

John: He means you’re in his favorite spot.

Y/N: Well, the data can have a little rest. It seems overworked. I’ll move once I've finished this chapter.

Sherlock: But… the ergonomics… the… the science of the seating…

Y/N: The science is telling me it’s a brilliant chair for reading. You should try the sofa. I hear it’s excellent for pouting.

Sherlock lets out a long, theatrical sigh and collapses onto the sofa, arms crossed, glaring at the ceiling. John hides a grin behind his newspaper.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Mrs. Hudson: And what are you going to be when you grow up, my love? A doctor, like John? Or maybe a vet, you do love your animals don't you?

Little Y/N: I'm going to be a consulting detective.

Mrs. Hudson: Oh, how wonderful! Just like Sherlock.

Little Y/N: Yes. And I will have a skull on my mantelpiece. And a thumb in the butter dish. And I will play the violin very loudly at three in the morning. And I will make John fetch me things.

There is a beat of perfect silence, broken only by Sherlock letting out a single, sharp bark of laughter. John just closes his eyes.

John: Brilliant. That's just… brilliant.

[astudyinshenanigans]

*Little Y/N is busy drawing*

Greg: Wow, that’s a brilliant butterfly, kiddo!

Little Y/N: It's not a butterfly. It's a moth. Chrysiridia rhipheus. The Madagascan sunset moth.

Greg:  Oh! Right. Moth. Of course. How do you… tell the difference?

Little Y/N: Butterflies have club-shaped antennae. Moths have feathery antennae. It’s a primary morphological distinction. It is diurnal, which is unusual for the order Lepidoptera, but its wing venation and frenulum are definitively moth-like.

Greg just stares, completely out of his depth. Sherlock, who has been observing from his chair, allows himself a proud smile.

Sherlock: You see, Lestrade? Precision. That’s what’s always lacking in your case reports. You call a moth a butterfly. The details matter. They always matter.

[astudyinshenanigans]

John comes home to find Sherlock and little Y/N on the floor, surrounded by brightly coloured building blocks.

John: *Smiling* You two look like you’re having fun.

Sherlock: Fun? No. This is a structural experiment. We're testing the load-bearing limits of the foundation. 

As if on cue, Y/N, looks up and breaks into a wide, unreserved grin. They do a little happy wiggle, their hands flapping excitedly by their sides.

John: Right. A 'structural experiment.' Because nothing says 'serious scientific inquiry' like a colourful block tower and that grin. Sherlock, they're having fun. You're having fun.

Sherlock: *Scoffs, but there's no real heat in it. He seems more flustered than anything* It's the satisfaction of a problem being methodically explored, that's all. The aesthetic pleasure of achieving perfect symmetry before it all collapses. They appreciate the process. It's not 'fun,' it's... engaging.

John: *Leaning against the doorframe, laughing softly* You know, it's okay. I promise not to tell. No one will revoke your consulting detective status just because you enjoyed playing blocks with a kid.

Sherlock: *Pointedly ignores John and turns back to the tower. He gently picks up a blue block* Now, look. If we add a buttress here, we can go at least a level higher. Pass me that yellow one.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Y/N: *Voice a shaky whisper* Did you hear that? Was that a gunshot?

John: No. That was the sound of a safety. Very distinctive click on a Glock 19.

Y/N: So… they're not going to shoot?

John:  That's very much the 'I am about to shoot someone' sound, love. Stay behind me.

Sherlock: *From the other side of John, peering around the edge of what they are hiding behind utterly unfazed* There are two assailants. One favours his left leg, indicating a previous injury. The other is wearing atrocious trainers. Honestly, who commits a crime in neon yellow?

John: *Rolling his eyes* At least one of us has our priorities straight.

[astudyinshenanigans]

Sherlock approaches, a small, leather-bound book in his hand. He holds it out wordlessly

Y/N: What's this?

Sherlock A book. Rectangular. Composed of paper, ink, and cured animal hide. Do keep up.

Y/N: Funny. Is it for a case?

Sherlock: No. It's for you.

Y/N opens the book. It's a rare first edition of a book they wanted

Y/N: Sherlock... this is... how did you even know I wanted this? I think I mentioned it once, months ago, when we were walking by that old bookshop in Charing Cross.

Sherlock: You didn't just mention it. You stopped. Your posture shifted, you then commented that the modern reprints "lack the soul of the originals." An obvious deduction, but a correct one. That particular shop didn't have a first edition. This one did. I acquired it.

Y/N: You remembered all of that?

Sherlock: It’s hardly an achievement. It’s a… practical application of data retention.

Y/N: Well, for what it's worth, thank you. It's the most thoughtful "practical application of data' I've ever received.