Summary: In which Sherlock discovered family wasn't defined only by blood or marriage and how he was, without a doubt, an indispensable part of it. No Slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, anything recognizable either belongs to the original author - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or BBC - the producer of the show.
Sherlock slammed the door with a heavy "thud" and stormed into his room in what could be mildly put as "a dramatic manner". The chilling cold from the seemingly everlasting rain wasn't in the least bit uplifting to his already foul mood. So far, it had been a day short of anything but frustrations after frustrations and even though he would die before he admit it, the absence of John's amiable company had done nothing but intensified the detective's boiling anger.
Earlier that day, Lestrade had stormed in his room, informed him of an intriguingly intricate murder while (without waiting for an invitation from his host) poured himself a cup of Vodka. Upon hearing the details of the case, Sherlock had instantly decided that it was absurdly simple and therefore, unworthy of his attention and efforts, especially in that ungodly weather. However, Lestrade begged to differ and somehow managed to coax him into coming to the crime scene.
The murder, unsurprisingly, was dull dull dull, so dull that even an elementary school child could solve it with his eyes closed. It went without saying that Sherlock was beyond furious to have been summoned to a less than interesting murder. To make the matter worse, without John ( at the 's my shift 't nice, Sherlock), there was no one to glare at Donovan when she had the "courtesy" to continually shot insults his way and tell the insufferable woman to 'shut the hell up'. Anderson, now worshiped the ground he walked on, followed him everywhere he went not unlike a lovesick puppy no matter how many times Sherlock not - so - discreetly told him to sod off.
Having changed into a sleeping gown, Sherlock snatched the Stradivarius lying among the various books and papers, and was about to play a composition or two when the door to his flat burst open. Without turning his back over, he knew it was none other than John Watson.
"The case is solved, John. There's no need to come anymore." He stated testily, raising his bowstring with the sole intent to immerse himself in the world of music rather than bat an eye to his ex - flatmate.
"I know. I'm sorry about that. The reason I'm here is because..."
"Something particularly joyous has happened to you while I was out in the bitterly cold rain to solve a bloody boring murder and now you can't wait to tell me that exhilarating news." Sherlock cut in impatiently, not forgetting to lace his voice with a heavy dose of sardonic sarcasm. "Now do me a favor and cut to the chase."
Before John could utter a predictable "How did you know?", with a rather melodramatic turn, Sherlock pointed the bow to John's soaking jacket. "You have just been back from your work, judging from your attire and the time. What about the time? It's 6:30PM now, your shift ended at 6. I know you didn't come home because it would take you 15 minutes to get home and another half an hour to get here from your house. So straight from work it is, which suits the 30 minutes distance from here to the clinic. Obviously, you didn't come here to apologize, judging from the unbearably goofy smile you're plastering all over your face. So no apology, good news then. Some good news that you just couldn't wait to tell me and couldn't just text it but instead, came all the way here despite the heavy rain, which means that it is of utter importance, right? I highly doubt that Mary has gone into labor, it's still a month early and you would be running around like a headless chicken if she had. So pray tell, what is it, John?"
"Amazing, as always." The doctor smiled sheepishly.
"You would be granted that privilege to witness more of my magic if you abandon your job at the clinic and continue to accompany me to cases on more of a regular basis. That would be better for the two of us." Sherlock muttered darkly. "But no, the great army doctor just has to choose a boring domestic life and an equally boring occupation."
"Sherlock." Came John's slightly disapproving reprimand. Nevertheless, the older man smiled ruefully and, after a few attempts to clear his throat, carried on.
"So we all know that it would only be another month before our baby come into this life. Becoming a parent is something that neither Mary nor I, to this day, could ever fathom but we are all the same happy to welcome the blessing God has been so kind as to bestow upon us. There exists no such word to describe how precious or invaluable our baby daughter is to us and how we are more than willing to trade worlds for the sake of our baby. Explicitly speaking, we want the best for our baby girl and we can all agree that she needs more than one father figure in her life. So..." Inhaling a deep, calculated breath, John went on. "We would like to ask you, should any harm or misfortune befall upon us, will you take on your responsibilities as our baby's Godfather?"
For a genius like Sherlock, it took him quite long a time to fully understand what John had relied. When the message the doctor was trying to convey finally sank through, he almost dropped his priceless Stradivarius onto the floor. His mouth slightly parted in a soundless yelp of surprise while his long, thin fingers wasted no second to clutch tightly on the violin as if his entire world depended on it. Yet, he was completely unaware of the fact that his bowstring had fallen onto the ground.
"You are asking me to be your child's Godfather?" At last, when Sherlock found his voice trustworthy enough to speak without the slightest of trembles, he doubtfully queried.
"Yes."
"But... why? I believe I am hardly qualified to be passed as an ideal parental figure. I possess none of the qualities needed in a parent - who, apparently, has to be loving, caring and definitely not - a - sociopath."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock regretted to let them slip at all. During their early years of acquaintanceship, John had made it explicitly clear how he felt about Sherlock's defining himself as a 'high - functioning sociopath'. He didn't really understood why John was so touchy about the subject but nevertheless, made conscious efforts not to refer to himself as he had always had when John was in the vicinity.
John was visibly bristled at the comment, he went rigid for a moment while his sparkling blue eyes fixed on an invisible point hanging in the air. After several moments, he relaxed his posture and glared pointedly at Sherlock.
"Listen to me and listen carefully, because I'm not going to say this are my best friend, a man whose loyalty not many men can rival with, whose intelligence triumphs over the majority of the human population and a man who, despite his self - proclaim as a high functioning sociopath, still manages to prove several times that his heart is in the right place. You might be socially awkward at times and a bit childish at others, but we can't name any man who is more worthy of becoming our daughter's Godfather than you." John ended his speech with a firm nod by ways of expressing his absolute trust in the younger man.
Still, Sherlock was unconvinced. He continued to transfixed his penetrating, yet unseeing, stare on John's affectionate features. The mere thought of becoming one's Godparent was unfathomable, foreign and completely alien to him. He had been told, on multiple occasions, that being a parent is a great gift - the best blessing from God for mankind and his mind has decided right on the spot, upon being told this, that he would never be fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of such gift and no sane man on Earth would ever entrust him with the task of looking after their children.
Yet, here John was, standing in front of him, offering him that gift on a silver plate with a sincere smile that bespoke his absolute trust. It reminded him of the time when John asked him to be his best man. That notion, strange as it was, was still understandable - he could have messed up John's wedding but he couldn't have messed up with John's entire life or his beloved ones'. Being a Godfather, on the other hand, was something far more sacred and meaningful than that. So sacred and meaningful that never had the mere concept of becoming one crossed his mind.
"Ahem."
"Oh." Sherlock, finally snapped out of his haze, bent down and picked up his bowstring. "Alright then. Ever since I was a child, I've always wondered if a person could be smarter if raised by people of high intelligence. Now you, John, have provided me with the perfect opportunity to embark on the quest for the answers to my childhood question. Of course, there runs the risk of her becoming a sociopath like me or aimed by people who want to get to me or her despising me even more than Donovan does or..." Although Sherlock couldn't fathom a reasonable answer as to why he kept stumbling on his words or babbling meaninglessly, he was sure it had nothing to do with the the bubble of sentiment and terror that was forming in his throat.
"Sherlock, you'll do fine." John reassured.
Nodding stiffly, still unable to completely overcome the shock of it all, Sherlock endeavored to shifted his focus back onto his Stradivarius in an attempt to erect a facade of indifference. The semblance of normalcy, however, was soon shattered.
"Oh by the way, we have found a fairly nice name for our baby and we'd like to consult your opinion."
"Harriet?" Unable to stop himself, Sherlock blurted out the first name that came to his mind. "Sounds nice but you might want to make it clear to your kid that you don't want her to follow her aunt's example."
"No, Sherlock. It's..."
"Martha? Decent enough. Mrs. Hudson would be delightful to hear that."
"No, it's not Martha. I..."
"Sarah, then? Would Mary be happy with that? The name of an ex lover, a reminder of how she isn't your first and only women."
"Oh how on Earth could you think of such a possibility?" John shot back an irritated remark, eyes visibly narrowed in slight annoyance. "We decided that..."
Unwilling to give up (or listen), Sherlock gave it another try. "Maria..uh...Mary? Lovely, naming your kid after her mother but one problem though, it's not her real name, is it?"
"OH FOR GOD"S SAKE WILL YOU LET ME FINISH MY SENTENCE." Irritated, John hissed and threw his arms in exasperation. "Let me finish first and you can voice your bloody opinion later."
"I'm not naming her after Harry or Mrs. Hudson or Sarah or Mary . Although I might consider your suggestions for my second child. But for now, Mary and I both have come to an unanimous agreement that Sheryl Mortan Watson should suffice for my firstborn."
A moment passed. Then two. Then several others and still, Sherlock refused to respond with any sort of reaction. He stood rigidly, fingers slacked open and his beloved violin fell onto the floor with a loud "clad". But for the tickling of the clock, there was no indication of sound or movement in the room as if everything had frozen in time and the Earth had unceremoniously halted to an abrupt stop.
"Ahem. Sherlock. It's late and Mary's waiting for me back at home."
"Oh, right." The detective nodded, seemingly still preoccupied elsewhere. "Sheryl." He tried the name. "Sheryl You're naming your kid Sheryl?"
"So I've said ten minutes ago. Yes." Seeing that Sherlock was not out of it yet, John picked up his violin and his bowstring for him and laid them on the messy table. "We have a few other options too, so if you don't like it just tell us and we will reconsider."
That was enough to broke Sherlock out of his trance. "No no no no. It's pretty..ah...uh...adequate and it's much better than Martha or Sarah or Harriet, obviously. Yeah, that would make a nice name... yeah, decent and all that."
Amused, John smirked as discreetly as possible while putting on his 'I'm trying to be serious but probably failing anyway' face.
"So it's settle then. You will be the Godfather of my daughter, Sheryl and bear with me and Mary the responsibilities of being a parent." John made his way to the door. "I have to go home now and, again - sorry for not making it to the crime-scene."
"I'm not changing her diapers, though." Now that he had finally be (somewhat) able to revert back to his flippant nature, Sherlock couldn't help but blurt out his crushing fear of having to do something he had no expertise nor the intention to master in.
"Mary will take care of that." John barked out an amused laugh and descended down the stairs. But before John could open the flat's door, Sherlock called out after him, voice laced with genuine curiosity.
"If the next one is boy, will you name him Sherlock?"
Sherlock had to spent the next five minutes to calm the doctor from his hysterical laughter while internally cursed himself for letting ever so sharp mind go astray. He was thankful, however, that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home or else he and John would have to endure her I'm - torturing - an - owl shrill. When John had finally calmed down and gone home, leaving Sherlock alone once again in his flat, the consulting detective immediately bolted back into his room, grabbed his laptop and hastily typed "How to raise a child if you are a sociopath" in the search engine. It went without saying that he was extremely disappointed with the results found.
That night, when he went to bed, brain filled w
ith several facts about parenting skills, child - rearing skills and anything that is children - related, Sherlock felt a trace of worry taunting him. Scratch that, he was, in truth, terrified of how he could mess things up and lose John's friendship as a result. Knowing that he wouldn't possibly be able to fall asleep with his mind plagued with what normal people would probably label as "anxiety", Sherlock crawled out of bed and engaged himself in the search for something among his piling stacks of books and referential materials. After half an hour of agonizing search, Sherlock triumphantly held high a leather bound notebook, ready to brag about his little victory with John only to realize, for the nth time, that he had moved out eons ago. Sulkily, he let out an indignant huff and dropped himself onto the couch and grabbed a fountain pen conveniently lying within his reach. With care, the detective open the notebook and meticulously scribbled on the front page "THE ADVENTURES OF SHERYL MORTAN WASTON" and when he was done, he was grinning from ear to ear like an idiot.
As he traced his long fingers along the words over and over, Sherlock was startle to realize that John, in his own bizzare way, was letting the younger man know that despite them not sharing the vow of marriage or the tie of blood, they were irrefutably family. The realization made Sherlock see, for the very first time, a tangible connection between him and the baby - not because she was his best friend's daughter but because she was his daughter as well.
Without a moment hesitation, Sherlock added a small "and Sherlock" below the previously written line. As he did so, he could feel all his anxiety and worry slowly dissipating away.
He couldn't wait for Sheryl's birth.
A/N: I am not entirely sure about Mary's fate in the following seasons. In the original work, she was of little importance and was barely mentioned. There was no reference whatsoever as to John's child, either. However, I believe that the producers have no reason to finish off such a promising character. They have done a great job developing Mrs. Hudson's character as well as Mycroft's and Lestrade's, so why stop there? So this is how I imagine things might play out in the following seasons. Thank you for reading and if you have a moment or two to spare, tell me what you think. Again, thank you.