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Description
Three-year-old Clover was very excited, for she'd gotten her uncle a very special birthday present. However, she failed to realize Sherlock wasn't one for celebrations. She shuffled up to him, carrying in her arms a rather familiar trench coat. Unlike her family, she didn't have an accent and sounded absolutely adorable. "Happy birthday, Uncle Sherlock!"

With that, the toddler handed her uncle the trench coat. The detective observed the trench coat, taking in every little detail of it. "It's hideous." He looked over to his brother. "Where the bloody hell did she get it?"

"She emptied out her piggy bank." Mycroft nodded in reply. "She bought it especially for you. I was making my daily rounds about town--trying to find a better bakery--when I came about her in an outlet, buying the coat."

"Well what am I supposed to use it for?" Sherlock snapped, tossing the coat aside. Sadness filled up Clover's emotions. Her bottom lip puckered up, sticking out above her upper lip, causing her to pout. She whimpered a little, staring up at Sherlock. "I thought you'd like it." "Of course I don't like it." Sherlock groaned. "It's ripped at the tail and has a stain on it."

"A blood stain." Mycroft corrected. "She got into a fight over it with a few children that were bullying her. It can easily be washed out, and the tear can simply be sewn." For once, Sherlock felt terrible. He stared down at the coat for a moment and then looked up to his niece. "I never knew you actually cared for me that much."

"Of course I do." Clover hopped onto the sofa next to Sherlock. "We're family. You wouldn't suspect me to care 'bout you?"

Description
Three-year-old Clover was very excited, for she'd gotten her uncle a very special birthday present. However, she failed to realize Sherlock wasn't one for celebrations. She shuffled up to him, carrying in her arms a rather familiar trench coat. Unlike her family, she didn't have an accent and sounded absolutely adorable. "Happy birthday, Uncle Sherlock!"

With that, the toddler handed her uncle the trench coat. The detective observed the trench coat, taking in every little detail of it. "It's hideous." He looked over to his brother. "Where the bloody hell did she get it?"

"She emptied out her piggy bank." Mycroft nodded in reply. "She bought it especially for you. I was making my daily rounds about town--trying to find a better bakery--when I came about her in an outlet, buying the coat."

"Well what am I supposed to use it for?" Sherlock snapped, tossing the coat aside. Sadness filled up Clover's emotions. Her bottom lip puckered up, sticking out above her upper lip, causing her to pout. She whimpered a little, staring up at Sherlock. "I thought you'd like it." "Of course I don't like it." Sherlock groaned. "It's ripped at the tail and has a stain on it."

"A blood stain." Mycroft corrected. "She got into a fight over it with a few children that were bullying her. It can easily be washed out, and the tear can simply be sewn." For once, Sherlock felt terrible. He stared down at the coat for a moment and then looked up to his niece. "I never knew you actually cared for me that much."

"Of course I do." Clover hopped onto the sofa next to Sherlock. "We're family. You wouldn't suspect me to care 'bout you?"