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Sweet Redemption
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Summary: Sherlock wakes up in his arch-enemy's arms. It's really not what you think… Non-slash. Companion piece to my story Big Bad World, but can be read as a stand-alone.
A/N: Quick apology to all the lovely fans of Big Bad World. I've taken a little break from the next update to write this little one-shot, which I hope you all enjoy. Don't worry, the next chapter should be up within a few days.
Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language and supplementary weirdness.
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Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Before we go forward, Sherlock would like to clarify that he himself was not a believer.
Never had been.
There may have been, once or twice back in college, a time when he enjoyed ruminating over such an idea - admittedly when rolling a joint between his lips and had a tendency towards questionable conjectural ramblings - but then again, who hasn't? He'd have to be an ignorant, provincial moron not to at least consider it.
The belief that many universes exist parallel to each other isn't so far-fetched to the scientific mastermind, however immaterial the prospect may be. It's the theory in which every single quantum possibility inherent in the quantum wavefunction lies within the realm of possibility in some reality that has always been mind-boggling to Sherlock.
The enormity, the complexity and, most of all, the absolute absurdity, was much too difficult for him to wrap his mind around. Falling into a different dimension in which the laws of physics or basic principles of our society were negated was a fascinating hypothesis - if a little too fantastical to comprehend in relative terms. Problem being, Sherlock didn't really see the point in having a world where hedgehogs existed and then a world where they didn't - or if they did, they were born with three eyes as opposed to the ordinary two.
The subtlety of the potential dissimilarities often renders the changes senseless, but the subject is so broad that there is no possibility, however small, that you could rule out in its entirety.
And had Sherlock ever ventured a guess at what one of those tiny, inconsequential modifications could be, it would never, ever, ever have been this.
Everything else, - everything everywhere - is the exact same as the world he is accustomed to. There are no flying dinosaurs or live action-heroes. Nor is there time travel or a strange but also remarkable addition to the animal kingdom (though, really, where is a fire-breathing dragon when you need one?)
It's just him.
Just Sherlock Holmes living in a world where apparently Sherlock Holmes… doesn't exist.
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He wakes in a bedroom and it's not his.
Dark, yes. Very sleek. The smell is wonderful. Oddly familiar, and yet, not. Could be an aftershave, more likely a cologne. He'd need more contact to be certain.
He's not on an airbed or a waterbed, but he's moving all the same. There's warmth on his back that feels like a hand and is shaped like a hand, but it covers much too much area for it to plausibly be one. Unless he's Jack and this is his beanstalk.
There is a flutter at his hair like the lightest of breezes and when he reaches up to its origins, his fingers graze a prickly texture like stubble. Only then does he glimpse downwards hoping to see a mattress. Instead, he beholds the cotton fabric of a standard, male's shirt. It doesn't seem logical, however…
Sherlock is most definitely lying on the strange, bobbing planes of what he eventually comes to realize is a man's chest.
There's a blanket that's slithered to the floor and lies in a fuzzy bunch, a dummy hosting a trail of saliva that dwells on his rounded tummy (and it isn't a stomach now, not really. It is unquestionably a tummy) and rises and falls in time to his breaths, cushioned in the hollow of his bellybutton. The writing on his baby blue tee takes a moment to decipher, being upside down and whatnot, but the fact that it's in bold goes a long way in his speedy decoding.
Daddy's Little Boss.
That's what it says. That's what his shirt says. Custom-made, he can tell. Regularly worn, too. Washed frequently, worn often. A father's personal favourite, most likely, to inflict on his little horror. That's what it means. It's worse than petite, it's tiny. And. It. Fits. Him.
Sherlock doesn't even want to think about the crinkling around his butt.
Toes enter his vision and they wriggle, thoughtfully. Swinging, bare limbs. So, so tiny.
"Ow," he hears a groggy mutter as something - his foot - connects with a hard kneecap. "What the…? Sherlock, it's not nice to kick Daddy."
It's like someone poured ice-cold water down his spine because that voice…that voice belongs to none other than Jim Moriarty.
"Afternoon, sleepyhead," his greatest opponent yawns. "Seems like I joined you in sleepy-land, after all. All that fuss for nothing."
Sherlock has no idea what he's talking about - no, that's not true. He does. 'Course, he does. He only has to observe. Open his eyes to what's right in front of him.
A tight grasp - judging by his creased white shirt. Remnants of snot, from an outburst of tears, he guesses. Damp patches on the shoulder, a common place for children to rest their heads while seeking comfort. Bags under the eyes, hair sticking up in all directions - must have run his hands through it one too many times while he tried to calm down the wailing toddler. Frustration and exhaustion. Not a great combination. Conclusion? He gave in, couldn't bear the upset. Only for a moment, he swore to himself, but he dozed off within the first five minutes. The evidence is all there. Obvious.
Then full comprehension of his situations dawns: he's somehow a toddler, Moriarty is acting like his father, and he's entirely screwed, because damn, this man is pretending to care about him.
Sherlock can hardly believe it.
He needs to find a way out of here. Now, dammit. Before this gets any crazier.
First, he has to ascertain what part of the country he's in - still England, he knows. But where? Then find a way to contact John, establish an escape route, hide out somewhere safe while managing not to attract the attention of the authorities. Easy peasy, right?
The local police force can't be trusted, of course. Who knows who's working for who? Anywhere Moriarty has chosen to embed himself can't be untouched by corruption. Anyone could be on his payroll. Nearby houses and friendly neighbours, included.
Maybe snipers share this block of fancy flats, he doesn't know. Better not go ringing anybody's doorbell. Better safe than sorry, in any case.
Sherlock can figure out a way to reverse this, whatever this is, later. For now, his top priority is just getting outta here. He'll crawl on his hands and knees away from the man who is so clearly his captor, if he has to.
He doesn't have a plan, but fuck it, he can wing it. He'll work something out. He always does. They don't call him a frickin' genius for no reason.
But down deep, where he acknowledges his weak, defenceless form and vulnerable position, where he recalls the shrewdness and diligence of his rival, Sherlock can admit he might be panicking just a little. He's sort of talking out of his ass at this point. But whether it's true confidence or gusty bravo doesn't matter, so long as it works. So long as it gets him outta here.
Moriarty is relaxed and by all outward appearances, he seems to pose little threat, but looks can be deceiving and his arms are still around him - suffocating him - and when Sherlock shifts the tiniest bit, gauging his response time, his dense brown eyes shoot open at once.
"You couldn't allow me one minute of peace, could you, Munchkin?" He hoists himself upwards with a groan and rubs his eyes. "Nice bed hair, by the way."
On instinct, Sherlock trails a hand through his short, fine hair, scowling. It's a confusing moment for him.
It seems as though his hair is thinning, like he is going bald prematurely, when really Sherlock needs to wait for it to start properly growing.
"Shit, shit," Moriarty suddenly grumbles, missing Sherlock's tiny flinch. "The damn Hendrickson job... Stupid, stupid. Of all the times to fall asleep." He lifts up the toddler in lap and deposits him on the soft carpet, murmuring, "Can you Daddy a massive favour and be real quiet for a minute, baby? Go check on Fingers." He nudges him towards the hallway. "Daddy needs to make a quick phone call."
Fingers? Sherlock echoes, - traces of black dog hairs on the hem of his trousers, earlier scuffling noises like slippery nails on hardwood, pink scratches fading on Moriarty's wrist and presumably upper forearms - it hates baths, then, especially from him - before shaking himself. Not now, Brain. Cut it out. He doesn't have time to worry about the inconsequential stuff.
Moriarty walks a short distance away and clears his throat to remove the hoarse tip-off to his afternoon activities from his voice. Then his phone is out and he's dialling - Sherlock swiftly determines this is his best shot.
He pushes himself up onto his feet and advances towards the nearest door. Quick as you can, now. You don't have all day.
"Get Aigner." The greeting is brisk, no-nonsense. Not messing about. Sherlock got a 'hi.' He remembers it vividly. He could never fault Jim for his table manners, at any rate. He knows how to schmooze.
A short pause fills the air. "…Yes, I am aware of how early it is, thank you very much. I don't care about the stupid time difference…Well, what the hell do I pay you for? Whining like a twelve year old girl?" He scoffs. Sherlock has reached the door now and his heart is racing. "-I don't think so. You're on my roster, darling. That means you're mine, all the time, anytime. Do it or you're done. You know how I feel about loose ends. They make me so very unhappy."
The handle remains just out of his reach, fingers flap uselessly at the hilt of the handle, toes straining and wobbling. He jumps - once. Twice.
Aha. Gotcha.
The door opens a crack, the cold air rushing to greet his face-
"And just where do you think you're off to, huh?" An amused voice clucks as hands scoop him up from behind, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Daddy can't turn his back for two seconds, can he? Not with a little scoundrel like you on his hands."
Moriarty bounces him playfully and questions, "Ready for some grub, sweetheart? 'Fraid we missed lunch."
"'Uh…" That's about as articulate as he gets, it seems.
"Mm. I'm starving. You must be starving. We should set an alarm in future. Next thing we know, we'll be missing out on tea-time."
It's not like Moriarty requires an answer, anyway. He's very adept at evading silences.
They head to the kitchen where he's settled onto a chair while Moriarty prepares the food. The consulting criminal begins singing as he fishes around in the fridge, swaying and dancing with ease to his own tune as he produces a sealed Tupperware container and collects two bowls (one plastic, one ceramic, to Sherlock's immediate displeasure. Any guess as to who gets which) from the middle shelf of the cupboard.
Bored, Sherlock begins drumming his fingers on the table in sync with Moriarty's voice and silently concedes that he's not half-bad, before halting as the actual lyrics register.
Christ, is that…is he singing burning love? Bloody hell, Sherlock exclaims in disbelief. What kind of twilight zone is this?
"'Cause your kisses lift me higher, 'like the sweet song of a choir, 'and you light my morning sky, with burning love," he croons sonorously, leaving to Sherlock to wonder who's on drugs: Moriarty or him? Though why, even spaced out and out of his mind, he'd ever create such a scene as this is beyond him.
"Prepare yourself, Munchkin," Jim suddenly announces with a look of horror. "Here comes the best bit!" Next thing Sherlock knows, his eardrums are being all but murdered as his adversary belts out his lungs in the most off-key imaginable. Elvis would be turning in his grave, for sure.
"I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burning love, 'JUST A HUNK A HUNK OF BURNING LOVE-"
Slapping his palms over his ears, his attempts to drown out the noise are largely unsuccessful as the consulting criminal's voice veers off into unholy screeches.
"-Hunk a hunk of burrrrning LOoooOOOvvveeeEEEeeee." Cue the inevitable striking of a stereotypical Elvis pose and soulful gaze to bring the performance to a close.
Sweet baby Jesus.
"What?" Moriarty laughs when he spies the boy's expression. "You don't like my singing?" He fakes a frown and pouts. "I thought I was magnificent."
Shaking his head forcefully, Sherlock is stunned when a pent-up giggle is subsequently set free. Once he's started, he can't stop, and the consulting detective is soon chortling generously and resisting the unexpected desire to clap his hands.
Moriarty grins. "There's my precious Munchkin," he declares, chucking the toddler under the chin. "Daddy was wondering where he went. I figured if my fabulous singing didn't work, nothing would."
Returning to his task with a lingering smile, the Irish man continues humming to himself as he doles out what appears to be some sort of pasta dish.
"Oh! Almost forgot," Moriarty says out of the blue, snapping his fingers. He swivels round, crouches down and snatches something from under the island, straightening to reveal a repulsively childish purple bib that reads Cereal Killer. Moving around to stand behind the horrified toddler, he fastens the bib around Sherlock's neck even while the toddler twists his head this way and that and squirms away, before commenting, "Wouldn't want you to spoil your lovely shirt, would we?"
And just when he thought his day can't possibly get any worse, with his arch-enemy right there and putting a fucking bib on him, his stomach chooses that precise moment to rumble, causing Sherlock to blush furiously.
"Alright, alright. Patience, my dear," Jim chuckles, tousling his curls - the constant casual touches sending Sherlock reeling. "One scrumptious feast coming right up."
Lifting their bowls from the counter and carrying them over, - after tossing in some fresh lettuce, of course - he promptly serves their meal up. "There you go, baby. Dig in." Then, before Sherlock has a chance to protest, adds, "Put that look away. I'm ninety-nine percent sure it's good for you." Sitting down beside him, Moriarty swallows a mouthful of his own and condescendingly narrates, "Look. Daddy's eating his, too."
Ugh. It's mushy and wholesome and looks revolting. Something John would no doubt approve of, he thinks wistfully, before chastising himself for allowing such sentimental rubbish to intrude his thoughts. He needs to focus.
Sweet corn and ham, pasta salad. Organic. Mayonnaise. Hint of lemon juice? Reduced-fat whole egg yoghurt. Imported from…Greece? Really? How pretentious. Roughly torn green oak lettuce leaves - locally sourced. Prepared yesterday. Seasoned with salt and pepper. Deseeded capsicum. Highly nutritious - includes dietary fibre, vitamin B3, potassium, low levels of iron, range of carotenoids. Obviously health-conscious, then. Why?
"It's not going to bite, you know." The persuasive murmur yanks him from his musings. Moriarty's face is startlingly, inexplicably cautious. He looks like a resigned parent waiting for the other shoe to drop.
With little other options than to pitch an intolerably age-appropriate tantrum, Sherlock spears a piece of pasta with his fork and tentatively rips off a chunk with his teeth as if he's expecting it at any moment to come back to life. Chewing slowly, he discovers that it's not as terrible as he envisioned, the flavours work quite nicely together, but it's no jam and toast either.
"Atta boy," Jim coos. The patronising praise really isn't helping, either.
Sherlock is at a loss to discern whether or not he knows and is only pretending to treat him as a child, or if he really doesn't know and this is real to him. Either way, the thought is terrifying. Doesn't he realise adult Sherlock is still lurking around in here? He must. He has to.
And yet…
No-one would smile so honestly around an enemy.
Even a defective one.
It's all so very strange. Unnerved by the steady scrutiny of Moriarty who seems to be experiencing one of those stupid, paternal 'gut feelings' that sense when something's up, he distracts himself by squishing pasta between his fingers and sniggering when he squeezes too hard and it shoots out onto the floor.
Jim never tells him off for eating with his hands or playing with his food. His gaze merely becomes less and less faithful, dragging lazy eyes over to him every so often and smiling while he multitasks, typing on his phone with one hand and skilfully manoeuvring a fork in the other.
Some of the food goes into his mouth; most of it never makes it. His aim is clumsy and Sherlock tends to hit his nose more often than not while his lips part and chomp at nothing, and besides, it's far more fun to clench his fist around a morsel of slippery pasta than to actually taste the pasta.
It never occurs to him just how childish such an enjoyment is.
And when Jim stops eating midway through his own meal to wipe his pasta-covered face with a look of exasperated indulgence, Sherlock lets him.
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He waits for his opportunity, but, true to his word, Moriarty never lets him out of his sight.
For a while, he's confined in a stinkin' playpen while the consulting criminal attends to business and contents himself by whacking a rubber hammer against some octopus-model that lights up and plays musical notes and what-have-you, and wielding a stuffed doggi-canine, waving it around in the air and jiggling it so hard that it makes a noise, too.
He doesn't realise he'd been talking, until he notices Moriarty's well-timed hm's and ah's to his babbling, "Uh-huh, sweetheart… Oh, really?…You're right. That is a funny noise. Try it again. I'll bet there's more where that came from."
When he accidentally hits himself during his excitable banging (and starts crying big, fat, blubbery tears. Completely helpless to stop it), Moriarty actually kisses it better with soft lips pressed against his forehead and an oddly comforting, "That's a mean old hammer, isn't it? Bad, bad hammer! Here, give it to Daddy. I'll put it over in the naughty corner. That'll teach him not to hit poor, innocent Munchkins."
Sherlock realises that it was merely a cunning technique of ensuring there isn't another repeat incident, but at the time, watching Jim prop the evil item up on one of his office corners, it really feels like justice. And it alarms him that later when Moriarty's face reappears above him, he instinctively raises his arms to be picked up.
"Do you know what today is, baby?" he asks while carting him over to his desk. He shakes his head, not daring to test the limits of his vocabulary just yet
"It's Thursday," Jim explains, grinning broadly. "You excited for some colouring?"
Not even a little bit.
But he goes along with it, biding his time, and reclines against the professional criminal's torso when he takes a seat. Sherlock wouldn't say that it's uncomfortable, exactly. Frankly, the proximity feels kinda nice and Moriarty has a strangely comfy lap. But it's weird and he's not supposed to be enjoying this - that was never part of the plan. He still doesn't trust Moriarty not to change the game.
The materials are already laid out on the surface, so he does the only thing he can and digs into the pot of crayons and makes a start, grasping a random crayon and dragging it falteringly across the page. Moriarty also colours, which makes him less self-conscious, in a sense, and they work alongside each other quietly, until the silence is broken by a hushed, sing-songy, "Awwww, is that me?"
Sherlock glances down and realises with a start that, yes, it is indeed a poor depiction of the consulting criminal. An extremely poor one. Sherlock doesn't consider himself even mildly artistic, but, Jesus - what a debacle. There is a brown blob (hair?) clustered beside another blob, followed by a solid mass of black that may or may not be a suit and various squashed in somethings. If he didn't know any better, he'd think it was an authentic child's drawing.
Thing is, though… Sherlock does know better. This should be better.
He's not some stupid tot practising his ABC's and developing his fine motor skills. He is a brilliant detective who is more than capable of spelling his own bloody name, dammit.
The anger in him wells up fast and furious and he slams a chubby splayed hand on top of the picture with the intention of scrunching it up and tearing it apart, but a large hand quickly covers his, while another carefully extracts the waxy sheet from underneath him.
"Uh-Uh, Munchkin. This one here's for the scrapbook. You can have Daddy's picture - how's that? The shredding sound's much more pleasurable when it's somebody else's hard work, I've found."
Sherlock withholds a sigh.
Can't argue there.
In the end, Sherlock does rip up the silly picture and his aggravation is even somewhat sedated by the sounds of destruction, too.
Life continues like that, with Moriarty cooking nutritious meals and reading cosy bedtime stories while tucking him in at night, and Sherlock quietly giving in, telling himself he's waiting on a chance he knows will never come.
He never notices what he forgets. He never feels his resistance draining away.
Sherlock never identifies the second it becomes normal to hug the man who kills for a living, because he's too busy breathing in the soothing scent of safety and snuggling in as close as he can.
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Thanks for reading. Obviously this isn't entirely Big Bad World complacent, but it's a fun story, no?