A/N: Hello all, and welcome to yet another of my Sherlock Holmes fics! For those who have read "The Adventure of the Detective's Marriage", this is roughly in the same vein, and possibly the start of a mini-collection of stories. For all my readers, remember as you peruse the following story - all is not as it seems. For those tempted to make comments about the stupidity of the plot: wait until the end to cast your judgement! And most of all, enjoy - I hope my writing lives up adequately to the worth of the Great Detective.

Disclaimer: These characters - i.e. Holmes and Watson - do not belong to me. To steal the phrase of other, far better writers on this site, I am "borrowing" them, and intend to put them back afterwards unharmed. Well... relatively so. Now, what are you doing wasting time on this disclaimer? Read on!

The Adventure of the Detective's Son

Chapter One

The records I have of Sherlock Holmes failing in the discovery of the solution of a case are rare, and the times in my memory of a criminal gaining the upper hand against him even rarer. The following account is unique, being the only case I have ever observed in which Holmes was himself the unwitting object of a cruel and clever deception. It is with some hesitation that I take up my pen to write the following words, for it was for Holmes a particularly painful and surprisingly personal experience, but since I doubt this shall ever be published I see no harm in putting my thoughts on paper. It is as close to a catharsis as I can come for either of us, and perhaps one day Holmes shall appreciate, or at least understand, the strength of my efforts.

It first began some months after Holmes' miraculous return from Reichenbach. It was a clear, fine day, but Holmes, with no case to study or mystery to solve, was more than content to lose himself in the fog of his malodourous science experiments. I had little to do and was, I must admit, a little downhearted, the day being the anniversary of my own one's death, and so chose to remain in Baker Street, going over old records and intermittently mentioning the possibility of a walk. I was, of course, ignored.

"Holmes," I said, after a time, "I believe you have a visitor." I had been watching the window and had so caught sight of the approach of a tall, proud-looking woman to the door of Baker Street.

Holmes glanced up sharply, his delicate experiment all but forgotten. After but a day's lack of mystery, his nostrils flared at the faintest scent of a mystery and a chase.

"A woman?" He said, cocking his head to one side as the light but certain step of our visitor made its way up the stairs. I inclined my head in defeat and made some effort to return order to the room before the lady entered. Even so, she gave a distinct, disapproving sniff as she entered and caught sight of the Great Detective, his sleeves rolled up and his hands and shirt flecked with the results of his latest foray into scientific investigation.

Holmes paid no heed to her apparent opinion of his favourite pastime, and reached carelessly for his pipe. She was tall, this woman; taller than I, and but a head shorter than Holmes. I could tell as Holmes looked down his pipe at her calm, regal bearing that he was, despite himself, impressed.

"Have a seat, madam." He said, nodding at a chair opposite the empty grate. She sat, as did Holmes and I. "And tell us your name. What is your purpose in seeking my help?"

The woman gave a haughty flick of her head.

"What makes you think I am here for your help, Sherlock Holmes? You may need mine before this day is through." Her eyes flicked towards me, and she gave a disgusted snort. "As for my name; that I shall tell you when you have sent your dog-eyed chronicler away."

I was far too shocked by her words to take offence at that moment, but Holmes more than made up for it on my behalf. His lips tightened and he laid his pipe down, all pretence at homeliness gone.

"Watson lives here, the same as I, and can come and go as he pleases. You can trust him just as well, if not more, than I with whatever secrets you may have to tell." He seemed to wish to say more, but he stopped, his eyes glittering. The woman did not seem ruffled by his words: on the contrary, she looked pleased. Her lips quirking slightly, she leant forward, her eyes fixed on Holmes.

"Oh, he is trustworthy enough, I am sure. I would trust him with my secrets – but what if it is your secrets which are revealed today? Would you trust him then?" She smiled, but it was not a charming smile – it was the triumphant smile of a snake as it swallows its mouse. "And as for my name; O'Doherty. Is that enough for you to hear?"

At her final words Holmes became completely still, his face paler than I have ever seen it. He turned to me.

"Watson," he said, "earlier you were complaining that the air in here was somewhat stuffy. Perhaps now would be a chance to enjoy some fresh air." The words were uttered in a kind a tone as I knew Holmes was capable of, but the implication – that Holmes did not want me to be a part of this interview, and did not, as the woman said, fully trust me – stung. I stood up, nodding curtly.

"Very well," I said, turning for the door, "and how long do you suggest this enjoying of the fresh air take?"

If Holmes picked up on my sarcasm, he did not acknowledge it. He glanced back at his guest, this strangely powerful woman, then turned back and met my gaze. His eyes were entirely serious and I realised, with a sudden thrill of fear, or even excitement, that in this woman Sherlock Holmes had met an admirable match. In that moment I swore to myself to find the nearest bench and note down every detail of the woman's appearance and attitude whilst I had the chance. A pen and paper were, as ever, in my coat-pocket.

"Thirty minutes will, I am certain, suffice." He said. "Good-day, Watson."

I exited then, with his curt dismissal still ringing in my ears, and for the first time in our association it struck me that, if anyone possessed power, it was Sherlock Holmes – and he possessed it over me.

888

I returned to Baker Street some time later, to find the woman gone and Holmes alone in the rooms. He was lying in his chair, an empty glass by his side and a peculiarly distant look in his eye. I hesitated, at finding him in such a mood, but spoke nonetheless.

"Our charming guest is gone, then, Holmes?" I could not, despite my jangling nerves, withhold from my tone a slight bite of bitterness. It had shaken me to encounter such open hostility from one of Holmes' clients – and a woman, of all people. That a female, with all pretences to gentleness and beauty, should speak in such a manner was almost beyond my understanding.

Holmes shook himself from his reverie, a slight frown of surprise at my presence accompanying his quiet reply.

"She is gone. I am sorry, Watson, that she spoke to you in such a way." But the words were uttered without strength or certainty; a thing which disturbed me in a man whose very livelihood was based on the mantra of being certain.

"It is no fault of yours how your clients decide to vent their frustrations." I said, still unable to even my tone. "What did she have to say to you?"

Holmes stirred slightly, and I took his hesitation as the gravest offence.

"That is," I added, "if you can trust me with her secret."

I turned, hoping to see that my words had ruffled Holmes' unchangeable demeanour, but he was, as ever, calm and collected. There was not even a spark of indignation in his eyes – merely the same distant, almost despairing, far-away look. When next he spoke, it was more to the wall, and his empty glass, than to me.

"But that it were only her secret that she had to reveal." He said. "And since it was not, is it truly wise to share it?" He looked up, then, and he surveyed me shrewdly. "Do you wish to hear it, Watson? Before you answer let me tell you this; that I have found myself in a... predicament quite unlike any we have encountered, together, before. Know that it is entirely of my own making, and that I have no right whatsoever to force another person to become involved."

I looked at him, all anger forgotten. There were lines of strain on his face which had not been there an hour before and, thinking back to his "predicament" with Moriarty some years before, I thought that my friend might be in some mortal danger, from which he wished to protect me. I was filled up with pity and compassion.

"Holmes," I said firmly, "whatever it is, you must tell me; as you said we have faced much together. Whatever this is I can assist you with it, as well."

Holmes held my gaze, a curious expression flitting across his face. Then he leant back in his chair, smiling slightly.

"Very well, Watson. You have convinced me. I suggest that you sit down, but before you do that, pour yourself a brandy. You may need it."

I did as he said, noting as I did that the decanter was almost empty. I glanced back at his empty glass. His strange mood, then, could be accounted for by inebriation. I sat down, the brandy in my hand, but with no intention of drinking it. If Holmes was in danger, one of us needed to have their wits about him.

"Very well, Holmes." I said. "I am ready. Tell me."

Holmes leant forward, frowning.

"Apparently, Watson," he said, looking almost comically amazed at the very words he was uttering, "I have a son."

Holmes was right. I did need the brandy.

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A/N: Please tell me what you think!