Hello :) I've decided to write this fic because it experiments with different themes and pairings to what you can find in most of my writing. It's slightly AU in the fact that Sherlock is twenty three and John is twenty five at the start of the story, which takes place about three tears after the fall; they need to be younger here so that I can write their character properly later on.
Anyway, enjoy, and be sure to post a review if you like it, and if you don't tell me why :) ~LS
Sherlock Holmes was many things; a genius, a freak, a smartarse, but not an angel, and most definitely not a father. He had deduced that his, for want of a better term, girlfriend Irene Adler was pregnant some time ago, and knew he had to leave. He hated himself- maybe it would have been better if he had at least said goodbye, or promised to provide for Irene and their child, but he didn't. He fled in the middle of the night, taking everything. To an untrained eye there was no evidence to suggest that he had lived there for three years, but both their eyes were far from untrained. Irene could see Sherlock's fingerprints in the dust that peppered the banisters and windowsills, could see in the mirror the effects that his departure had had on her. Her eyes were shadowed, her lips appeared thinner, and, of course, her stomach rounder. Sherlock had assumed she would have an abortion, but then the consulting detective did not understand his own emotions never mind those of the people around him. Or maybe that was what he had told himself to ease the guilt. He didn't want to think that there was a child, his child, growing up fatherless because of him. If he had to feel emotion he preferred it to be satisfaction rather than guilt; guilt was felt once in a blue moon, churning his stomach and filling his thoughts. It was most inefficient and, dare he say, unpleasant. Leaving demanded a certain amount of guilt, and lies and hopes were anesthetic, numbing the feeling and the pain though not completely. The thought that kept him going was John, revealing himself to his best friend. And though he couldn't expect to be forgiven, the guilt of abandoning him would be lessened, leaving him with less to feel bad about. Maybe.
"There's a letter for you." announced John, who was sifting through their post in a fashion unique to an army doctor, meticulous yet efficient. He held the letter out to his best friend, who was lying on their sofa, several nicotine patches applied to his arm. He lifted it and grabbed the letter without opening his eyes; he only did so as he ripped the cream coloured and textured paper, pulling out a letter printed neatly onto white paper. Sherlock unfolded it, impatiently progressing towards the reading of it's contents, although had he known what the contents were, he would have been less hasty. He read the letter three times, attempting to take in the information. He coughed, once, before placing the letter on the table, trying to ignore John's glance, although he knew what was coming.
"What is it?"
"It...it seems that I have a daughter."