AN: Hello everyone! This is my latest project, the results of the mad Sherlock-bender I've been going on lately. I can't wait for them to start filming the third season in March! I'm going to cry tears of happy, and then read all the new fanfictions which it will no doubt generate. I'm going back to Uni in a couple of weeks, so I can't promise super-regular updates, but I'll try my best to keep it to no more than every two weeks.
I would just like to thank my big sister, BoekOtaku, for being my beta on this project. She's much more of a reader and a beta than a writer, but feel free to check out her short Alex Rider drabble. She also has a comprehensive list of FF.n's best Sherlock fanfiction listed in her favourites. Her fresh eyes have been invaluable to me. Her criticism is always constructive and well-reasoned, she's wonderfully specific, and she has great ideas for re-writing problem areas without losing the context I'd been establishing. I pay for her services by letting her have the super-comfy computer chair instead of the ancient-and-ratty one on days when it's my turn to have the comfy chair. It's totally worth it. ;-)
It was eight in the morning when the doorbell rang at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes was nearest the door, just putting on his jacket before he headed out to meet with Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard, so he was the one to answer the door. The peculiar thing was, there was nobody at the door, just a small generic wicker basket with a plain white cloth covering it on the doormat, and a small note safety-pinned to it.
There was only one word written on the scrap of paper, but it was enough to freeze Mr Holmes in his tracks. It read 'Sherlock', and had a lipstick kiss below his name. There was only one woman who he had ever seen wearing that shade. The Woman, otherwise known as Irene Adler. She'd probably had that lipstick custom-made by one of her clients. Sherlock unpinned the note, and turned it over. Sure enough, the note elaborated.
'My dear Sherlock, remember Karachi? Well, I guess amongst all the confusion, I wasn't quite as careful with my pills as I should have been. She's yours. I'm sure you realize that with my occupation and all of its associated hazards, I cannot provide the life that I would wish for her. I understand that you are in the same situation, but it is my hope that you could find a good couple or family who can take her, someplace where she'll grow up safe and happy. I haven't given her a name yet, I didn't want to let myself get too attached. I thought perhaps you might like to have the honour. Please forgive me, Sherlock.'
With a growing sense of dread, Sherlock tucked the note inside his coat pocket, and lifted aside the cloth to reveal what he already knew it would. Inside the basket lay a tiny baby, wrapped in a warm yellow blanket. He shifted it aside to get a better look at the infant. It was a newborn girl, no older than thirty-six hours judging by the state of the short length of clamped umbilical cord which hadn't yet dried and fallen off, and her eyes which were still the pale blue of a newborn.
Their colour would change in the next few days, perhaps to Irene's hazel, or his own sharp grey. She had a few fine strands of dark hair the same shade as his curls. Her lanky bone structure certainly matched his genetics, but a simple blood test would be able to confirm or refute the note's claims. When the baby wriggled weakly, snuffled and whimpered, Sherlock suddenly realised that it was a chilly almost-autumn morning, covered her back up, and quickly carried her basket inside, up to his apartment.
A million questions whirled about in his mind. How had this happened? Well, aside from the obvious biology of reproduction, it had been more than just Irene's forgetfulness. There had clearly been some carelessness on his part too. He'd foolishly allowed himself to get caught up in the moment after he'd rescued her from scimitar-wielding morons. It was unforgiveable of him. He would never allow that to happen again.
Why hadn't she told him she was pregnant? Well, that wasn't too difficult to deduce. For The Woman, showing any kind of weakness, perhaps most of all such a fragile state as being with child, could only have been a terrible threat to her safety. Besides, with a vulnerable infant in her belly, she'd no doubt had ample motivation for remaining as discreet as possible. There was also the not-so-small matter that until three weeks ago everyone had believed him to be dead.
Well fine, but why then leave the baby on his doorstep, instead of at some anonymous place of safety, like a church or clinic? That was also easy enough to guess. Irene was a sentimental sort. She'd probably felt that Sherlock had a right to know about his own child, and get a chance to meet her. Besides, he had more connections than most, and he would be more thorough in checking out a prospective family for his baby than Irene would have been able to be.
He'd be able to guarantee their daughter the best sort of life she could ever hope to have, filled with familial love and support, an excellent education, and any number of opportunities for her future. If Irene had left her fate in the hands of Social Services, the poor child could have wound up with anyone at all. Also, although the odds were in the favour of a pretty, healthy newborn like theirs, there was no guarantee that she would have been adopted at all.
She could have just been shunted from orphanage to foster care to group home, and been mistreated in any one of those establishments, or in all of them. No, she was much better off with her father screening all potential adoptive parents. He'd get right on it first thing in the morning, right after John had helped him to settle in the newest member of their household. No doubt the Doctor's reaction to this sudden development would be interesting to witness.
Something niggled in the back of his brain, but he ignored it. He had more pressing matters to attend to. Lestrade's robbery case would just have to wait. Besides, it was only a four, he could probably handle this one over the phone. There weren't even any dead victims to examine. The only reason he'd accepted it in the first place was out of sheer boredom. Somehow he had the feeling that boredom was no longer going to be an issue for him over the next few days. It was a good thing that he was well used to sleep deprivation.
He set the basket down in the tidier corner of the living room and grabbed his laptop, vaguely wondering where John's laptop had gotten to, before focusing on researching the care of a newborn, current babysitter rates and nanny agencies, and online baby goods shopping sites. It seemed that newborns mostly just slept, ate, and dirtied their diapers for the first few weeks of their lives. Well, that should make things reasonably simple.
Sherlock sighed at that information. They would definitely be needing some sort of child-minder until he could find the girl a new family, he most certainly wouldn't be changing a diaper any time soon. Whilst he did his research, he simultaneously texted Mycroft. He was loath to rely on his brother like that, but he'd already learnt that babies needed to be fed very regularly, especially breast-fed ones, and he wasn't going to be able to find his daughter a suitable wet-nurse in time for her next feeding on his own.
He'd just have to make sure that Mycroft never found out that the infant was in fact his bastard niece. Sherlock would never hear the end of it if he did. True to form, within twenty minutes of having sent the message, a curious Mycroft and a sleek black limousine filled with twelve applicants for the post of wet-nurse, appeared just outside 221B. Sherlock glanced over each of them as they exited the vehicle. The first three were brunettes.
None of them would do. Secret smoker… violent boyfriend… drinks wine with her dinner… The next two were blondes, the sixth a redhead, the seventh another brunette. Kleptomaniac… uses diet pills… another secret smoker… undiagnosed beginning stages of flu… Where on Earth had Mycroft found all of these useless women? Short notice or not, his brother was definitely losing his touch. He must have assigned his personal assistant to the search.
Perhaps Sherlock should have been more specific as to who the wet-nurse would be caring for after all. Maybe then Mycroft wouldn't have been so careless. The last five stepped out, another blonde, two more redheads, one more blonde, and one last brunette. Promiscuous… diet pills… OH! Hello! The last redhead would suit nicely. Homely, good morals, single mother, just recently weaned her own infant, but still producing plenty of milk judging by the size of her breasts.
There was even a bottle of appropriate vitamin supplements poking from her handbag. He would have to check whether or not the contents of the bottle matched the description on the manufacturer's website of course, but he saw no signs of addiction or withdrawal, and he would know better than most. A single mother judging by the lack of a ring, clearly a trusted relative was watching her child whilst she stepped out. An added bonus was the nurse's cap she wore. She had to be certified to wear the official cap.
It wasn't necessary of course, not with Doctor Watson at his disposal, but it still made him feel better about trusting this stranger with his child… Damn, he'd done it again. For a moment, he'd forgotten that he no longer had John. He wasn't sure whether it was just his imagination or not, but he suddenly felt rather chill. He pulled his coat tighter about his slender frame.
He completely ignored the last two (smoker… getting a cold…). He pointed at the short redhead. "You're hired. The rest of you can go home. Mycroft, don't let them near any other babies. Nurse, follow me." He abruptly turned around and headed back into the flat. The selected woman looked to Mycroft, who gave her his standard smile, and a nod. She hastened after Sherlock's retreating back, and Mycroft followed after her at a more sedate pace.
In the meantime Anthea shepherded the rejected applicants back into the limo, before moving to wait for Mycroft in his black Bentley whilst the limo pulled into traffic. She smirked when she heard Sherlock call, "I don't remember inviting you in, Mycroft." The last thing she caught before she closed the car's door, and Mrs Hudson closed the front door of 221B, was Mycroft's reply. "You have asked me for my assistance for the first time in over three years, and in procuring a wet-nurse no less. Did you really think I wouldn't be curious?"
