Astrid is a character of my own invention, but all the others belong to BBC, Moffat, and Co.
Many thanks to my friends Jaclyn and Lillian, as well as my lovely beta, thesupernaturalwhiz.
Warning: un-Britpicked. If you'd be willing to do it for me, or even if you have one or two corrections that you know of, pleasepleaseplease tell me?
221B Baker Street is not a common address for visitors who are not Scotland Yard employees or customers seeking a private detective. However, on a hatefully ordinary, boring day, Mycroft Holmes walked up its stairs with a teenage girl in tow. She carried a small leather backpack, probably containing what one would expect to be in a purse for a girl her age. She didn't have anything else, unless you counted the nagging look of being on edge and yet having completely given up, all at the same time. Mycroft knocked on the door of the flat and (unusually) waited for a response.
"What." Sherlock's voice answered. Not a question.
Mycroft entered, and the girl followed behind. As they entered she looked around, curious. John was typing at his computer and Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, teasing his violin. He looked up, almost lethargically, and John rotated in his chair.
"Mycroft. What do you want?" Sherlock asked petulantly. No cases on.
"I thought this would go over better handled by me, as opposed to a lawyer or some such thing," Mycroft replied.
"Not exactly an answer," John commented, only half listening.
Mycroft continued, unabashed. "This is Astrid. She's lived just outside of London for her whole life, and recently, her mother was killed in a tragic car accident. Her mother had no living relatives, so the girl's legal guardian is now her father, who she's never met."
Sherlock sat up almost imperceptibly, interested but hiding it from Mycroft. "You want me to find him?"
"Oh no, Sherlock," Mycroft almost grinned. "That's entirely unnecessary. I've already found him. I suppose I should expand my earlier statement. Astrid's father, until today, didn't know she existed. Her mother told her his name, and when she told the police who came to collect her that she knew who her father was, I was alerted."
More interested now, John interrupted, "Why would it matter to you? It's not a member of the royal family or something, is it?"
"Nothing of the sort, though I believe some days he thinks he is that important."
"Well then what is it?" Sherlock would have whined, if whining weren't completely below the world's only consulting detective.
Finally, the girl spoke up. "I'm Astrid. Astrid Holmes."
John looked first at Sherlock, then at Astrid. He supposed it could be true. The girl had his pale skin, that was for sure. Their hair shared the same curl, though hers was far more relaxed. Her eyes were the blue-grey depths that Sherlock's were on occasion. Her face resembled his, though if he had passed her in the street, he would have made no note of the resemblance. Yes, it could be possible. But Sherlock, his Sherlock, with a child? A biological child?
Sherlock's mind was fast at work calculating dates, gestational periods, and ages. Yes, mathematically and biologically the girl could have been the product of a one-night stand during uni, but what were the odds?
"You're sure?" he asked. Mycroft, not the child.
She fixed her eyes on Sherlock, as though daring him to refuse to claim her. John noticed, and marked another tally in the column "Likely Related to Sherlock". Little did he know how many tallies he'd mark there.
"I have my birth certificate, if that would make you feel any more certain." The girl spoke again.
Sherlock shook his head.
"Obviously Mycroft wouldn't have brought you here if he wasn't totally certain," John interjected, though he himself wasn't quite sure of that statement.
"Mother's name?"
"Anne Winters."
Sherlock paused for a nearly imperceptible moment, and then nodded. Apparently, this had assuaged his doubts.
Mycroft, perceiving this, continued, "So then. You're the girl's legal guardian, should you choose to accept such a duty. Since you never knew she existed, there is a bit of legal leeway for you to refuse."
Sherlock, for once in his life, was speechless.
John suddenly stood up from his chair and strode over to Sherlock. Their painfully ordinary day had disintegrated into one of those random moments that changes everything. He sat down beside Sherlock and placed a hand on his knee, drawing Sherlock's attention from the floor to his face. "What do you think?" he asked needlessly. If Sherlock had known what to think, he wouldn't be sitting here in silence.
"I'll be off to uni in just a few years, if that helps. I won't be in the way. All I really need is an address to put down on school papers and such." Astrid piped in. Such a high, melodic voice. Very different from the mellow, masculine voices that were so much more common in their flat.
A slight tilt of John's head, a firmer grip on his knee, was all Sherlock needed to tell him that John had already made a decision.
"Alright, she stays."
That night, after several pieces of luggage containing what was left of her old life had been delivered by black vehicles to Baker Street, and the situation had been explained to Mrs. Hudson, the men of 221B had a bit of a discussion.
"Well, the child can't sleep on the couch. I guess that seals it, one of us will have to officially move in to the other's room."
"Honestly John, I'm a sociopath, not an idiot. I'm well aware of the proper care of children."
John greatly doubted that.
"Fine then. Shall I move my things out, or are you moving in with me?"
"Logically, since you spend most of your nights in my bed anyway, you should move into my room."
"As long as it's logical."
For once, Sherlock missed the sarcasm.
"So, Astrid…" John began, then trailed off. What do you say in a position like this? Would you like some dinner? Not like there was food in the flat. They'd have to wait until Sherlock got back and they all went out for Chinese or something.
I'm your father's lover, hope it isn't weird for you. That's a brilliant way to start a relationship.
How do you like the flat? Honestly, it doesn't matter how she likes it; she's stuck here no matter what. If she hates it, she probably doesn't want to dwell on it.
What's your favorite movie/book/TV show? Completely trivial and would probably result in a single-phrase answer. Not ideal.
"Mum went out for groceries. She never came back. I waited for a little while at the police station, and then Mr. Holmes-the older one-came in and told me that we were going home to pack my things. It took a few days to settle things, legally, and there was the funeral. Somehow I feel like if it hadn't been for his being there, it would have taken much longer. Then we drove here. It's only been a week." Direct, honest. No polite small talk, but no weeping and wailing either. Another tally for his mental column. But perceptive, too. Sherlock wouldn't have been able to feel the awkwardness in their silence, wouldn't have felt the need to end it.
"I'm sorry."
She nodded. "Me too."
Just then, the door banged open and Sherlock strode in. He was halfway through his explanation of an "absurdly simple" case (it had only taken him half an hour and hardly any legwork to solve the whole thing) when he registered Astrid, sitting at the table with John. "Oh." He stopped short.
John, sensing that neither one was ready for the conversation they'd eventually have to have, made a suggestion. "There's a great Italian place just a little while away. It's where Sherlock took me, the first time we worked a case together."
"Let's just establish some rules." The next morning, over breakfast, the real Astrid came out, full of energy and not at all the reserved, quiet child of yesterday. "There's no reason for you two to censor yourselves just because you think of me as a child. Say 'bloody'. Talk about gruesome murders. Drop the f-bomb if you feel the need, but don't patronize me. Actually, I'd feel the best if you changed your life as little as possible for me. Rule two: I don't know if you two have noticed or not, but being gay has become fairly acceptable recently, so you don't have to pretend you're just friends who are now sharing a bedroom or something. By the way, sorry about that. I didn't mean to displace you."
"Nonsense," replied John.
"It was about time anyway," Sherlock added, just loud enough to be heard. His first words all morning.
"We have some rules as well. Mostly the usual: don't sneak out, don't steal things, in general, don't be a juvenile delinquent. Past that, I don't really think either of us has a right to talk."
"I think we'll get along just fine," Astrid said with a grin.
The trio finished breakfast in a semi-companionable silence, broken only by the sound of Astrid or John's cup being sat down on the table. Sherlock, as usual, wasn't eating.
"Well, I'm off to the surgery." John got up and placed his dishes in the sink.
Sherlock had been leaning against the kitchen wall. As he left, John grabbed him and dragged him to the door, out of earshot of his daughter.
"You have to talk to her. No excuses."
"And say what, pray tell? 'Oh, I'm sorry I didn't know you existed, how can I ever make it up to you that I didn't come looking for you?' 'Please don't cry, it'll all be alright.' John, I don't like children. I don't like people! The vast majority are incredibly stupid."
"If you'd give the girl a chance, you'd be surprised how much the family name suits her."
With that, the good doctor left the building.
It didn't happen all at once. It didn't even happen gradually, like you'd expect. But one day, instead of "John, could you please pass the milk?" It came out, "Dad, could you pass me the milk?" A moment of silence, registering what they just heard. A look between two men. And then the milk was passed, poured onto cereal, and returned. Just a moment, and then nothing. Well, not quite nothing.
'Dad' never went back to 'John'.
Sherlock couldn't quite understand the pang of hurt that went through him when she still addressed him by his name.
A/N: The response I get to this fic will be the deciding factor on whether I post the rest of what is written and finish the story. I've about two or three more chapters finished. So, if you want the end of this story, you should review and say so. ;D I hope you enjoyed Chapter 1 of my first-ever fanfic.