The boy entered and found his nuncle, like his papa, sound asleep. His clothes neatly folded in the chair, Holmes himself lay folded toward one side of the mattress.

John Sherlock approached him and shook his bare shoulder. "Nuncle," he prodded shrilly, "Nuncle!"

Holmes woke slowly, then turned and raised his head in surprise. "Wh-what is it?"

"I can't sleep!" he declared.

Holmes blinked. "I'm sorry," he said, because he could not think of anything else.

"Tell papa to come sleep with you, nuncle."

He half-choked on his reply, his eyes widened. "What?"

"Please! Papa snores, and you don't mind, 'cause he already slept with you."

Holmes started and half-jumped up. He pulled the bedcovers defensively closer to him as he sat up against the headboard, peering at the child. "No, he didn't."

"Yes he did!"

He was stunned by the child's sheer boldness. "What ever gave you that idea?"

John Sherlock frowned. "Well, how come you're over on one side?"

He blushed. "I'm not used to my old bed yet. It's nothing to do with your father."

"But his half is slept in!"

"Sat in," Holmes insisted. "Just sat in. We only talked in here."

"But papa didn't come to my room for hours; he can't talk that long even telling stories! He musta slept here, 'cause you woulda thrown him out earlier if he bothered you."

Holmes asserted stubbornly, "It would not be appropriate for your father to sleep here."

"But he did!" the boy pouted. "Papa didn't tell me you were such a fibber." He seemed about to cry.

"All right," Holmes muttered, conceding. The child had to have damned good observational skills, didn't he?

John Sherlock perked up, pulling on his nuncle's arm. "Go and wake him up so he'll come back!"

Holmes realised then the true source of the boy's argumentative eagerness earlier. There were some things, after all, to which the child was oblivious and innocent. Holmes resisted the boy's insistent tug. "I can't," he said.

"Please, nuncle. I want my own room again. It's a dreadful row, and I'm not a baby anymore."

Holmes considered that the boy had a large vocabulary for three, but that was likely the author in his father. "No," he agreed, "you are not."

"Please wake him!" John Sherlock begged.

"I should like to," he said, "but your father--" He gave up on the sentence. How could one explain? Holmes himself had tried to argue with Watson not to go, but Watson had insisted that it was for the best. Holmes shook his head and leaned back with a sigh. "John Sherlock," he said quietly, "What did your father tell you about me when I was gone?"

The boy happily went along with the odd change of subject. "You are best pals from the good old days when you went chasing criminals together! Papa named me after you. You had wonderful exciting times--papa told me all the stories!" The boy hopped up onto the bed excitedly with a new idea. "Tell me a story!" he commanded.

"A story?"

"A bedtime story so I'll sleep. Tell me a story just like papa does. With bank robbers and forgers and lion hunters and creepy animals!"

"I'm afraid I'm not quite the storyteller. Not like your father. He has a special gift." Watson would be thrilled to hear him admit it.

"Aw, it's easy!" the boy insisted. "You did so many things together. You found treasure, chased criminals, rescued ladies--"

"--A regular romance adventure, indeed!" Holmes laughed. "Tell me, were there dragons and damsels in distress?"

"I don't know what a 'damsel' is," John Sherlock admitted.

"It is a lady," he murmured disdainfully, "in need of rescue."

"Oh!" John Sherlock piped up with recognition, "the ladies you rescued from 'villains who threatened their virtue'!" He giggled afterward as though the phrase were his favourite one from his father's bedtime stories."

"Virtue?" Holmes questioned, then shrugged. "--Ah, you are John Watson's son. Of course he would teach you 'virtue' early." He halted John Sherlock's curious examination of a certain mark left on Holmes's skin. Holmes covered the mark and asked, "What did your father tell you about virtue?"

The boy sat back and pondered. "Virtue means you don't lie, cheat, and steal, and you do what's right. And you have honour, and you're brave and--"

"--And what about ladies with virtue? Beautiful, delicate, and chaste no doubt?"

John Sherlock hesitated, as if not wanting to admit to another unknown word. "Well, they are nice, and honest, and they protect their family. They love their husbands--unless their husband is mean and lying, and then they try to get away. Papa told me when Roger Baskvil was cruel to his wife and made love to another lady, and forced 'em both to help him murder somebody with a dog, and you--"

Holmes stopped him, sitting up and narrowing his eyes. "Do you know what 'made love to' means?"

"Course I do," John Sherlock said, a bit proud of himself for appearing to impress his nuncle. He continued, though, with a grimace. "It means that mushy stuff, like hugging and kissing and asking her to marry him. Mush!" He appended as an afterthought, "I don't like girls."

"Not many boys do," Holmes replied seriously. "Your father, of course, has told you that when they are older, young men usually change their minds."

John Sherlock still made a face. "Hugging and kissing!" he pouted.

"Usually," Holmes repeated quietly. He ventured, "Not every young man does. My brother Mycroft is like that. Have you met him? He never changed his mind about liking anyone's affections more than the abstractions of his work. And I--" Holmes stopped, then resumed, "I have never married."

"Me neither! Not if I have to hug and kiss."

Holmes laughed, shaking his head. "John Sherlock, in spite of your name, you must endeavour not to imitate anyone, but come to your decisions yourself."

The boy merely yawned, losing interest in keeping up with the increasingly difficult vocabulary. "Please go wake papa, nuncle," he tried again.

Holmes frowned and sighed. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Holmes struggled. "Your father worries about you," he finally managed.

"Why?" The boy became more wakeful with his curiosity. "I'm not a baby anymore."

"He doesn't want you to know."

"Why?"

"Because," he repeated staunchly and almost painfully, "it isn't appropriate for your father to sleep here." Holmes saw that his meaning was lost on John Sherlock, and tried again. "It's ... it's a secret that your father sleeps here."

Having suspected his nuncle of fibbing again, John Sherlock now perked up considerably. "A secret! Like when papa writes stories and can't tell people what happened, and who people are?"

"Yes!" Holmes sat up. At last Watson's stories were helping him. "Your father's discretion--his secrets that he can't tell, to protect people."

"Like James Ryder who stole the K-karbubble and you didn't turn him in to the police!" John Sherlock just about hopped up and down with his delight of understanding. "Papa says that it's only right to lie if you're keeping somebody's secret so they won't get hurt, or get into more trouble than they deserve." He appended, in a serious tone, "But you have to be sure they don't deserve it."

"Yes," Holmes concurred, much relieved.

John Sherlock sat near him again, looking up at him curiously. "Why's it a secret?"

Holmes sighed. "Didn't your father tell you it's not honourable to ask about secrets?"

"But I already know the secret," the boy reasoned. "Papa slept here. But I want to know why it's a secret, and why didn't he stay here?"

Holmes gave in again. He must surely be underestimating Watson if his son was so exceptionally observant. Or possibly the boy was learning from hearing all of Holmes's cases as bedtime stories. Or possibly, his mother--oh no, could she have known?

To the waiting boy, Holmes finally replied, "He--he's not allowed to sleep here."

"Why? He's allowed to sleep in my room. Why isn't he allowed to sleep in your room?"

Holmes could see that the boy was genuinely confused, and not trying to be a nuisance. Besides, his ability to see through a fallacious argument ought to be rewarded. Holmes began slowly, thinking it out, "It's different when he's just your father in your room." He talked over John Sherlock's next 'why'. "You understand of course that your father isn't really related to me. And even within a family, sleeping in the same bed would be odd after a certain age. Adults--adults don't usually sleep together unless they are married." He hesitated. Oh boy were there a lot of exceptions contained in the word 'usually'! More truthfully, he said, "People don't feel it's right to sleep together unless the couple is married."

"Do you feel it's right, nuncle?" he plucked at Holmes's arm. "Do you want papa to sleep here?"

He swallowed, closing his eyes and frowning. "I want him to, more than anything."

John Sherlock looked at him very compassionately, even without total understanding. He was like his father that way. "I'm sorry it's not allowed."

Holmes controlled himself. It would not be right to leave the child mistrusting half the morals of England. He couldn't really feel self-righteous about his own adultery, anyway. He didn't think Watson could either. Watson had qualified 'loyalty to a husband' as a mark of a woman's virtue.

Holmes patted the boy's little hand, trying to assure him. "It's all right. It's--not that bad. Really, most of the time people are right about unmarried couples. There's just--an area where I can't agree, and it's only because, because--"

John Sherlock waited expectantly. "Please, nuncle." He was intent on understanding a truly grownup thing, beyond even what his father thought he ought to know.

Just how much could he make the boy understand? In what terms?

"--Because I care for your father very much, but I'm not allowed to show it."

John Sherlock sat thinking hard for a moment, trying to fight his sleepiness. "Why don't you get married?" the boy finally asked. "If unmarried people can't sleep together, then why don't you get married so you can sleep together?"

Holmes blinked and swallowed. "We can't, my dear child," he spoke quietly, "we can't."

John Sherlock still frowned at Holmes. He remained extremely puzzled, and he disliked the thought of going to sleep puzzled.

Finally Holmes gave up his hesitation. "Your father ... makes love to me," he said slowly. Thankfully, Watson had softened the meaning of those words already. "That's what he does when he's here with me. He wants to marry me," he rephrased. Holmes laughed a bit at himself. "Your father would have done it years ago, too--dragged me right to the altar with all the traditional chivalry and officiating to make us right with the world--that's the kind of person he is, and he's charming that way." Then he frowned, "But we can't be married. Couldn't be if we tried."

Holmes watched to see if John Sherlock followed him. He spoke plainly, "Only a man and a woman can get married. Not two men, or women. It's simply not allowed. It's what I don't agree with but can't control." He sighed, eyeing the boy's questioning face seriously. "If anyone even knew that your father slept here, it would cause him serious trouble." Holmes bit his lip, blinking. "You know that I was gone for years, and your father believed me dead? I left because I couldn't bear the risk of ruining him, causing him trouble because of how I loved him. --Do you--do you understand?"

John Sherlock nodded, looking very serious. "So--so you can't tell anybody?" he whispered, seeming to feel the momentous gravity of the matter. "And you fibbed 'cause you didn't want any trouble for papa?"

"Yes," he said. "And I need to trust you to keep our secret. Will you, John Sherlock?"

The boy looked resolute. "I will!" Then he sat back and thought in silence for a moment while his nuncle wondered if he had overestimated the child, in fact. At last, John Sherlock turned around and plucked at his nuncle's arm again, whispering very intently, "Nuncle, if you and papa and me all want papa to sleep here, how about we all fib so that he can stay here at night?"

Stunned for some moments, Holmes finally managed to respond, "Are you sure you want to fib? To everyone? Mrs. Hudson? Your friends?"

The boy nodded. "I can keep a secret. I'm not a baby."

"No," he whispered, "you are not."

"Let's go wake him!" John Sherlock scurried off the bed and pulled at his nuncle again.

"Just a moment! Let me get dressed."

The boy let go and went over to the door. "Hurry!"

Holmes threw on a dressing gown and followed the insistent child's quick steps. He walked behind slowly, feeling slightly dazed at the bewildering situation in which he found himself.

They quietly entered the other room, and John Sherlock then held back, whispering, "Go wake him!"

Holmes approached softly and sat near Watson on the bed. He slept soundly, reminding Holmes of what he had missed for so many years. He was hesitant to disturb Watson's tranquility, and he glanced up toward John Sherlock across the room.

The boy waited with a puzzled look upon his face, as if he would never figure out his nuncle. Didn't he say he wanted papa in his bed? It was difficult to ponder. John Sherlock couldn't help yawning, being very tired and having to understand so much in one night, but he extremely disliked the thought of going to sleep while still puzzled.

Holmes turned to Watson again, touching his shoulder. "Watson," he began to prod, but then changed his mind. Instead, Holmes reached for his face and kissed his lips.

Watson woke and responded with warmth, blinking as he sighed, "Holmes." When he glimpsed his son frowning at seeing their 'mush', he gasped more sharply. "Holmes!"

Holmes prevented Watson from jumping up in horror. "It's all right. He--knows."

"What do you mean he knows?"

"I mean I told him--about us. He's a very inquisitive child and he got it out of me that you and I are a secret."

"But--"

"And as reward for promising to keep our secret," he turned Watson to see how his son yawned with disinterest and grogginess, "I've promised to convince you to come back with me and allow him to sleep alone in his own bed." Holmes pulled Watson onto his feet. "Please, I'll explain it all to you. Right now, let's allow your honourable young man to sleep without intrusion from his father's 'mush'."

John Sherlock approached the bed now and spoke through his yawn, "Please, papa. I won't tell ... 'bout unmarried sleeping." He crawled onto the bed and under the covers. "Good-night, papa. 'Night, nuncle."

"Good-night, John Sherlock," Holmes said for both of them, and pulled Watson from the room. He spent the rest of the night explaining, and then sleeping in quite a restful way himself.