A/N: Set after "Something So Small". I do not own, nor do I profit from.
The knock on the door distracted Sherlock and he looked up from his work, eyes narrowing, displeased. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and John hadn't forgotten his keys, nor would he be home yet, since he'd only left for work an hour previous. Sherlock was still irritated about this – John was supposed to be off today, since it was Saturday and not his Saturday rotation, but the doctor who was supposed to be working was ill and neither of the other two could make it. Sherlock considered that John shouldn't be able to make it either. After all, John had a family just like the other doctors did, even though this did not involve children. Sherlock felt vaguely slighted by the patients who required John's attention, but was trying to be diplomatic about it, for the sake of not being accused of acting like a child himself.
He was not expecting any mail today, since it was the weekend, nor courier packages. He hadn't ordered any food. If it was Mycroft, then his brother could go hang. Sherlock still wasn't talking to him, nor did he want to. It had been over a year now, and Sherlock was still angry, but in a cold, hard way, one that would last quite a bit longer.
He decided it wasn't for him, and went back to work.
The knock came again, sharply, and he heard somewhat familiar overtones, but could not quite place them.
He took the opportunity to curse to himself in French. Always good to keep in practice with his second language. Then he pushed himself away from his work and stood, ignoring the twinges in his back that argued he'd been sitting too long, and made his way to the door. As he clattered down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, giving him a curious look.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, good," Sherlock said. "You've company."
"I don't think so, Sherlock dear," she replied. "Was someone knocking?"
She was beginning to lose her hearing and John had been after her to get a hearing aid, but she was so far refusing. Sherlock didn't ask her to; the less she heard, the louder John was in bed and Sherlock liked that. Although he didn't know what John was so fussed about anyway; Mrs. Hudson had, after all, been married once. Certainly she knew what went on. Sherlock didn't understand why John was embarrassed; they were a couple, of course they were having sex. But John had strange ideas about things sometimes, which Sherlock still didn't understand, even after over two years of marriage and three years of partnership.
"Yes, someone was knocking. Not expecting anyone?"
Mrs. Hudson shook her head and the knocking came again, more urgent this time.
"I can bloody well hear you, Holmes!"
Well, that solved that. It was Tricia. Not for Mrs. Hudson, then. Sherlock unlocked and drew open the door to find Tricia standing in the light rain, somehow managing an umbrella, a diaper bag, and her five-month-old daughter. She looked frazzled: not enough sleep combined with some new urgency, blue eyes bright, looking over his shoulder for something she didn't see.
"Where's John?" she demanded.
"Got called into work," Sherlock replied. "Why?"
For a moment Tricia stared at him, as if she didn't believe him – no, she didn't want to believe him, because she'd had her mind set on talking to John, Sherlock could see. Then she reached some decision and shifted Josephine toward him.
"I need you to take her," she replied.
Sherlock paused.
"What?" he asked.
"Look, I got called into work, emergency, one of my patients is in early labour. Henry's in New York on business. I thought John would be home! Please, Sherlock! I have no one else on short notice!"
No family in the city. Her brother had committed suicide when they'd been teenagers, casting shadows behind her eyes she'd always carry, and it was no wonder, then, that she and John were so close. They'd both lost siblings, Tricia permanently, and John to addiction, which had been improving for awhile, but Harry had relapsed again and had not gone back to treatment. Sherlock had called her up after that, when John had been at work, and screamed at her for five minutes, knowing full well she was hung over and taking a grim and angry pleasure in it. It hadn't changed anything, but it had made him feel better to hurt her for hurting John. He hadn't told John, though, and he doubted Harry would, if she even remembered. He hated seeing John disappointed and trying not to be, telling himself that he should have expected this.
Tricia's father was in a care facility in one of the suburbs, old before his time, having lost his son and then later his wife, who had faded away after Jeremy's death and eventually died of a long illness. Henry's family, his sister and her partner and step-son, and his parents, lived in Brighton, too far to be called upon at a moment's notice.
"Can I help, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked behind Sherlock. For a moment, Tricia's eyes flashed hope and relief and that decided Sherlock. What was he, chopped liver?
"Of course I will take her," he said firmly and Tricia looked back at him, automatically shifting Josephine into his arms. The baby went willingly, almost launching herself toward her uncle, giving a startlingly happy cry and grabbing his face immediately. This was supposed to be a sign of love, but also hurt when she tugged on his lip with her sharp and strong little fingers.
Tricia gave him the diaper bag.
"Everything's in there, bottles, but you'll need to heat them, twenty seconds, no more, keep them in the fridge until then, because breast milk can go bad, you understand? Spare clothes, toys, diapers, call John if you need to know how to change them, or Mrs. Hudson can show you, I suppose. She should nap before lunch, maybe a couple of hours, when she starts getting fussy, just put her down. Um, if you load pillows around her on the bed, she'll be fine. Thanks, Sherlock, I owe you." She darted inside, kissed him on the cheek, then was back in the waiting cab before he could say anything.
"Need a hand, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
Sherlock felt his pride was stung.
"Not at all," he replied with a certainty he didn't entirely feel. "This isn't the first time I've taken care of her."
Which was not entirely true. It wasn't the first time Josephine had been babysat at their flat, but it had always been John in charge, and Sherlock didn't understand how his husband did this so easily and well, as though he practiced in secret. Or there was some club that taught men how to do this that Sherlock had never been allowed to join, or even been told it existed. Perhaps it was a doctor thing? Or John just knew what he was doing better than Sherlock.
No, that was unacceptable.
He went up to his flat, carrying Josephine easily on his hip, warding off her attempts to grab at his face again. She always seemed so fascinated by his face, in a way that she wasn't with anyone else. She loved John, to be sure, and was happy to be taken care of by him, but, for some reason, whenever Sherlock was around, she was vying for his attention. Which he was always hard pressed not to return. John laughed at this, saying she just really adored Sherlock, but why? Sherlock had yet to figure this out, because he could not simply ask her, nor deduce the reasons her behaviour.
He did know she loved grabbing his thick hair and tugging hard, with surprising strength given that she was less than half a year old. Perhaps that was what she liked; Sherlock did have a lot more hair than John.
Except she often fussed if John was taking care of her and Sherlock wasn't paying attention, so that a few times, he'd ended up with her on his lap, trying to work on some experiment while simultaneously keeping her small and inquisitive hands away from his equipment. He never succeeded, and he'd have to give up on his work. Usually, John would bundle her up and the three of them would go for a walk, since it was something they all enjoyed, and then everyone would grin at Sherlock and John as though she were their daughter. Sherlock never understood this fascination with two men being in a relationship, as if he and John were cute. Like puppies. Nor did he understand why people thought it was sweet that a man, or two men, was caring for a baby. Surely men cared for children all the time? He preferred dealing with criminals, whose thought processes did not often run towards what was cute and sweet, but how they could get away with murder. This motivation was so much clearer to Sherlock.
He closed the door behind him then realized he was alone in his flat with an infant for the first time.
And did not really know what to do.
He needed John.
No, he told himself. You're a genius, and this cannot be that hard. If it were difficult, no one else would be able to do it.
This cheered him slightly. He always did enjoy being right about things. And he so often was.
He sniffed the air carefully, ensuring nothing was toxic, or at least toxic enough to cause Josephine harm, and was satisfied with the result. He propped her on the couch, keeping a sharp eye on her, then moved the coffee table, spreading a blanket on the floor, as John always did. Their flat was not at all baby proof, but thankfully Josephine could not move around on her own yet. She was close to crawling, so she could easily get about on the blanket, but not far enough to do any damage before a pair of adult hands could lift her back.
Sherlock settled her on the floor then and dug out some toys from the bag, holding them up for her inspection and approval. Really, they were dull, a brightly coloured cloth ball, which she snatched from him and stuffed in her mouth, a pink plastic rattle – pink! – some stuffed animals, a book made of cloth with garish pictures.
"How do they expect you to learn anything?" he asked, standing up and crossing to the bookshelf. His own collection of literature was much more stimulating, and he selected a volume on early forensics work and began reading it to her. Josephine listened to him intently for a few minutes, chewing on her ball, then her rattle, then began to fuss, bored. Sherlock wondered why – this was fascinating subject matter.
But he closed the book and checked the time. Less than twenty minutes since Tricia had dropped her off. John would be at work until around two, then it was another twenty minutes to half an hour on the tube, depending on the time of day and the volume of riders, and if the lines were all running smoothly, so they had quite a lot of time together.
Sherlock suddenly remembered to put the bottles in the fridge, so he scooped Josephine up and carried her into the kitchen with the bag, digging about with one hand, shoving some of his own equipment and some actual food out of the way and storing hers. Then he pulled out his phone and looked up instructions on how to change a diaper, which seemed fairly straightforward. Good thing, too, because it needed to be done.
Sherlock got it right on the second go, muttering darkly to himself about how this shouldn't be so difficult, then pulled Josephine's leggings and socks back on, patting her stomach amiably as he did so. She gurgled and laughed, managing to clap her hands once at him.
"Your hand-eye coordination is progressing well," he told her. "Shall we continue to work on it?"
They did so for about five minutes before she got bored and Sherlock decided getting her out was in order. She was much better when they were out and about anyway, because she enjoyed seeing the city. Sherlock approved; London was worth learning, and the sooner, the better. Best to learn it as it was, too, not as the tourists saw it, and not to gloss over it as so many people who lived there did.
He dressed himself first, then got a bottle out of the fridge, because he could at least stop at Angelo's and press the man into letting them use a microwave if necessary. Tricia hadn't included a baby carrier, but Sherlock would be damned if he was going to attach some ridiculous contraption to himself anyway. Josephine didn't weigh very much, and his arms worked fine. Then he shunted her into her coat, mittens, toque and booties, declaring her ready, snug against the cool, rainy weather.
She grinned toothlessly at him when he picked her up and he slung the bag over his shoulder, feeling entirely too domesticated for his own tastes.
"You are not allowed to tell anyone we did this," he informed her. Josephine replied by grabbing his lip again, her sharp nails almost cutting through his skin. "Ow," he told her. "That does hurt. If you're conducting an experiment on my reactions, you should be satisfied that you get the same result each time. Please move your hand."
She laughed again and smacked his nose. Sherlock blew gently on her face, making her squirm and giggle.
"Right. Shall we go?"
He ducked out, avoiding Mrs. Hudson who couldn't hear him very well on the stairs now if he moved quietly, which he'd learned to do in self-defence against her interest in his life. She was not as bad as Mycroft, if only because she did not command the same array of resources and could not monitor his activities.
He realized at the door that Mycroft probably was monitoring him again – Sherlock didn't often see people actually watching him or John, but he was certain they were there, and that his brother made good use of the ubiquitous security cameras about the city to satisfy his desire for information.
Well, to hell with him, Sherlock decided. If he went nowhere, Mycroft would just watch the flat until Sherlock left it. And what was he going to do with a baby present anyway? Unease churned in Sherlock a moment; he had, after all, been involved in the death of a child, even if he insisted his involvement was only peripheral. But Sherlock was also there, and wouldn't allow anything to happen, and was not about to be forced into another car or tricked into a dummy cab.
He left the house, opening his umbrella to protect them from the light rain, and began to walk, narrating their path to Josephine as he did so, so that she could learn the tricks for dealing with the city streets. Where a traffic light was improperly tuned with the ones around it, so a person on foot could catch up with a car heading east or west at that intersection. Where the on way streets in Westminster confounded an easy escape. Where the subway access tunnels were hidden and how to access them without proper permission but with the right tools. The best route for a cab to take to get to the center of the city from Baker Street in rush hour traffic.
She listened as intently as a baby her age could, and looked around as if absorbing his words and applying them to her surroundings. Sherlock ignored the amused and surprised looks he got from talking to an infant. Really, did no one else do this? How else was she going to learn to talk, and learn about the city? She was naturally curious, and he couldn't understand why anyone would not address that potential in a child.
He kept her out for about an hour, getting some much needed exercise himself, then returned home when she started to fuss, putting a bottle in the microwave for the requisite twenty seconds, then giving it to her. It was apparent she could not quite hold it on her own yet, so Sherlock assisted her with that, tossing the bottle back in the bag when she was done.
"You should sleep now," he informed her. "According to your mother's instructions."
Josephine looked at him and babbled her baby noises. She did not appear tired.
Not to be daunted, Sherlock took her into the bedroom, made a nest of pillows, changed her, then lay her down on the bed. Josephine fussed, then rubbed her eyes – so she was in fact tired, and had been trying to deceive him in the livingroom.
"I'm onto you," he said. "You have nowhere near the experience necessary to mislead me, young lady. More accomplished criminal masterminds than you have tried."
She scrunched face up and fussed some more, and Sherlock gave her a pointed look.
"Go to sleep," he instructed. "It will make you feel better."
Josephine began to cry, not real tears, he knew, but frustration at being tired and not wanting to sleep. Sherlock did not understand this; if she was tired, she should simply sleep. That's what John did. It's what he himself did, when he occasionally actually felt tired. It was logical.
She was not very good at logic yet, he noted.
"One moment," he told her and ducked back into the livingroom, returning a moment later with his violin case. He opened it and tested the tightness of the strings, then drew the bow softly across the strings, producing a soft, clear note. Josephine stopped fussing immediately, her blue eyes focusing on him with surprising speed and clarity.
He kept playing, a soft and peaceful melody, until her eyes began to drift shut, despite her best efforts not to let them. When she had fallen asleep, Sherlock stopped playing and put his violin away quietly. He would take it back out for her again when she awoke, because he enjoyed playing and she enjoyed listening. She was a far more appreciative audience than John.
He fetched a book and installed himself on the bed beside her, to keep an eye on her, not trusting the pillows to their responsibility. They were, after all, only pillows. Sherlock read a bit, then realized he was distracted and simply watched her sleep, dreaming her baby dreams, for awhile. He enjoyed watching her sleep in a way he didn't anyone else – mostly because other people were boring and he didn't spend a lot of time around sleeping people anyway. Except John. And it was always so much better to wake John up. John's arguments that he needed more sleep than Sherlock were irrelevant. There were other things that John needed in precisely the same quantities as Sherlock.
Sleeping people could also be deceptive, he knew. John often wasn't, because when he slept, he really seemed to enjoy it, unless he had nightmares, which Sherlock always held him through now, when he was aware of them. But Sherlock had done it himself. Often, he did it just to annoy John, pretending to be asleep to avoid some chore or petty argument, which always worked, but once, he'd feigned sleep with John to get information he hadn't had before.
Two years ago, when Sherlock had still be in the hospital recovering from the crash, he'd overheard a conversation between John and his own mother. They'd thought he was sleeping, and he had been, but had drifted awake enough to hear them, something inside him latching into the sound of John's voice, which had been Sherlock's only anchor when he hadn't been able to see. This had been after he'd regained his vision, before it was fully returned, but on its way.
"You know," Sibyl said, "After Mycroft was born, we had two more children. Both boys. I lost them both while I was pregnant. Not during the first three months, which would have been understandable, because I know it happens, but later, about five months in. After the second one, they told me I probably shouldn't try for any more. I had one healthy son, so I should be grateful." She'd paused, giving a dry and mirthless chuckle. "Grateful, that's what they said. So I wasn't even expecting Sherlock. I remember I was so tense the entire time I was pregnant, so sure it would end the same way, and the doctors would berate me about that, too. 'Stop being so tense, it isn't good for the baby'. As if I could help it, or was doing it on purpose.
"Then one day, there he was, all dark hair and red faced and yelling. And I thought that it was done, over, he was there, he was real, and I could relax." She chuckled again, this time with more sincerity. "Mycroft was so jealous, you know. But I'd understood Mycroft so much better. Sherlock was – I never was able to quite understand him, even when he was a newborn. I thought the best I could do for him was protect him, give him whatever I could, whatever it seemed he needed, but he was always one step ahead of me, laughing like it was a game, me trying to keep up. He always ran circles around me, but I didn't care, as long as I could keep him safe."
She'd paused, smoothing a hand over Sherlock's hair; by this time, they'd taken off the damnable head bandages, but he still had healing cuts and was not allowed to wash his hair, which drove him mad. He was quite vain about his hair, but went to great lengths not to make that evident, so even John didn't really realize it.
"And now I can't," she sighed, her voice not quite masking a small tremble. "I know Mycroft tries, but he's always at step ahead of all of us, isn't he?"
Sherlock wondered why she'd never told him this; it was baffling. Why did people admit to their feelings about another person to a third party. Was it safer? He always told John how he felt about him, at least when it occurred to him do so. He had not known about the miscarried babies, or that the doctors had told her not to have more children. He did not like to think about it.
To avoid thinking about it now, Sherlock went back to reading. Josephine was asleep – she at least hadn't grown enough to use feigned sleep as a tool. Plus, she couldn't really understand him anyway, since he spoke English and French and she spoke Baby, but Sherlock resolved to teach her how to fake sleep properly. It was a difficult skill to master, but a valuable one to know. He would also teach her to read the signs that someone else was trying to pretend to be asleep, so she'd know what to look for and how to deal with it.
When she awoke, he changed her again and took her back to the livingroom, pulling his violin once more from its case. Sherlock played for her as she woke up, as she watched him with the vestiges of her infant sleep disappearing from her face. She was rapt for several minutes, then extended her hands to him, gurgling and babbling. He put the bow back in the case and sat down beside her, holding the violin in his left hand, and easily pulling her onto his lap with his right. Then, very carefully, he moved the violin into her reach, keeping a sharp eye on her.
Josephine leaned forward, her movement somewhat overdone, since she was still learning control of her body, and touched one of the strings. Gently, as if she understood how important it was to be careful, even at five months old. She giggled in glee when she produced a sound and Sherlock smiled.
He'd never let anyone play his violin before.
He even got irritated when John moved it, in its case, while cleaning the flat. Now he made John tell him it needed to be moved.
Josephine opened a palm and pressed it lightly on the strings. Sherlock twitched one of the strings for her, producing another note, earning a bright smile as a reward.
He would teach her this, too, he decided. He would teach her everything he knew that he could, how to read people, how to map the city in her mind, how to deceive people effortlessly to obtain information or results she wanted. And how to balance it with music. As music balanced had always him.