Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Nero listened to the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. Resting beside him was his mother, Kate. She was connected to said heart monitor, as well as an iv drip stuck into the back of her hand. Nero listened to the heart monitor because that was the clearest, most reliable, sign that his mother was alive.
Not for long. He thought.
Beside him, he felt his mother stir. "Nero, honey are you still here?"
Nero shook himself out of his admittedly morbid reverie to respond. "Of course."
Kate sighed and adjusted herself so she was in an upright sitting position. "And what about school?"
"Unnecessary." He said.
"Oh really? Why's that." She asked.
"Everyone there is dumber than me, I'm not learning anything, and isn't that the whole reason why I'm there?" Nero explained curtly.
She looked the boy over, and ran a hand through his tousled black hair. "You remind me of him so much sometimes."
Nero furrowed his eyebrows. "Who?"
"Your father."
"Why-" Nero stopped mid sentence when a thought occurred to him. "He's not going to take me."
Sherlock Holmes had never been involved in Nero Hamish Holmes' life. Part of that can be blamed on the fact that Sherlock never knew that Irene had had a child, nor that it was his. While Irene had originally taken up life in New Zealand, her and Nero moved to Canada four years after he was born, wanting her child to lead a life better than her own at the time. They established a home there, and had been living there ever since.
Kate sucked in a breath. "Don't say that."
"Why? It's true." Nero wasn't being self-deprecating, nor was he being sentimental. To him, he was simply stating what he believed to be a fact.
Kate sighed and reached for the laptop resting on her bedside table. She never wanted to hear her son speak like that. She didn't care if there were no emotions in his words, she cared about his relationship with his father. Even if they hadn't met, she didn't want him thinking that his father knowingly abandoned him. "Darling, get me my purse."
Nero did as he was told, handing his mother the swollen orange bag. All with very precise movements, Kate unzipped and unbuttoned a series of compartments, and felt around the velveteen lining until her hand froze as she got a hold on something small and metallic. Slowly, she pulled it out, revealing a USB drive. Putting the purse down, she turned the computer on, and stuck the flash drive in.
Nero eyed his mother carefully. "Mom, what's that?"
"Before I die-" Nero winced at the bluntness of her statement, "I need you to know my story."
"You have a story?" He asked.
"Another thing you have to know," She started. "Everybody has a story. Now get comfortable because mine's kind of a long one.
"I haven't always gone by Kate Duchamps. I was actually born Kate Brown in a small town right outside of Buffalo, New York. I moved out right when I turned eighteen, and changed my name to Maria Peck. I didn't particularly enjoy my time as Maria though, so I changed it after a year, to Irene Adler. I stayed Irene for almost twelve years, I was Irene when I met your father, he saw me as an unsolvable puzzle." She explained.
Nero sat twiddling with his mother's hospital bracelet. He didn't say anything, but looked up when his mother stopped talking. His eyebrows rose, as if to prompt for her to go on.
"I'm dying, and there's nobody I trust to care for you once I'm gone, more than him. So before I go, I'm going to tell you the truth, alright?"
Nero nodded silently.
"Alright, let's begin."
They sat like that for a long time. Nero enthralled by his mother's epic, while Kate narrated lives which she had nearly forgotten about. He listened intently to every minuscule detail that escaped her lips. Towards the end of the story, a nurse walked in to check up on them, as well as give Kate her dinner and medication. The two watched a program on the hospital television as they ate. Later that evening as Nero was getting ready to leave, he turned in the doorways to ask his mother one last question. "How does it end?"
Kate sat up just enough to see the eleven year old's face. "How does anything end?"
"Death!"
The exclamation echoed throughout the posh, English flat. John Watson sent a look of exasperation towards Sherlock Holmes who was simultaneously talking to John as well as balancing a young child on his knee. The small girl jumped at the sudden rise in volume. Sherlock, seeming to remember that there was indeed another person on his lap, adjusted his hold on the girl, and promptly apologized.
"Can you try not to scare my daughter half to death, Sherlock?" John asked.
"I said I'm sorry, and she doesn't seem very hung up on it, unlike you." The younger man drawled.
Upon saying that, Mary walking in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. The little girl immediately left Sherlock's lap for her mother. Mary set the tray down on their coffee table.
"Mummy! Mummy! Uncle Sherlock shouted DEATH! Really loudly, right into my ear, and I got frightened for one little second. But it's alright because he said he was sorry." The little girl told her mother.
Mary crossed her arms, and glared at Sherlock. "Is that so?"
"I apologized!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Anyway, I was just telling John that London's mortality rate was higher than most of the Ukraine."
"Are you trying to convince us to move to the Ukraine?" John asked.
"Of course not!" Sherlock said, "Only you."
"Excuse me?" Mary asked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For a week."
The two Watson's seemed to calm down at the clarification. While the adults were talking, the youngest Watson had dived straight for the chocolate covered Digestives, and was greedily scarfing them down. Mary, realizing this, picked up her daughter and ate the half eaten cookie in the girl's hand.
She made her daughter look into her eyes as she spoke to her. "Mia, how many cookies have you had?"
Mia refused to look at her mother, and simply shrugged.
"Alright, no more. Okay?"
Mia nodded and went to read her newest copy of The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. As Sherlock watched the mother and daughter, he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He answered his cell, not recognizing the caller ID.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Mr. Holmes, this is Graham Montgomery. I'm Kate Brown's lawyer." The voice introduced over the line.
Sherlock mentally scanned his name bank, but found no Kate Brown. "I don't know a Kate Brown."
"Ms. Brown just suggested that you remember her under the name Irene Adler." The lawyer stated.
Now that was a name that Sherlock Holmes was familiar with. His mind palace overflowed with excess knowledge pertaining to that very name, and no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it, he always seemed to fail. He had created Irene a new alias after Karachi and assumed she knew the danger that went along with failure to follow the instructions he had left her, but Irene was smart, and she wouldn't reveal that name under just any circumstances. That left only one explanation.
"How long does she have?" He asked.
"The doctors say a month at most." Mr. Montgomery relayed.
"I'll be there tomorrow." Sherlock said.
"She's at Saint Gabriel's Hospital in-"
"Toronto, yes I know." Sherlock interrupted. "I'll be there tomorrow."
He severed the line, and practically jumped out of his seat. John physically caught up with his friend, and matched his pace beside him.
"What's the matter, who was that?" John asked.
"Irene Adler's lawyer." He replied curtly.
"Nope. I'm sorry, no. She is dead." John said resolutely.
"No, she's not. I saved her life in Karachi back in 2011."
"But Mycroft-"
"Mycroft was wrong, and if you'll excuse me, I need to get on the next flight to Toronto." Sherlock said.
"No, wait a second Sherlock," John grabbed his friend's arm and yanked him to a stop. "I'm going with you."
"So, you can't go to the Ukraine, but you'll drop everything at the mention of Toronto?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
John looked up at Sherlock. "Not Toronto, Irene. You've never been good with emotions, and she played with the little you've expressed. So...I'm going with you."
Sherlock allowed himself a slight smirk, and walked out the house, coat billowing after him. John glanced behind him, and grabbed his jacket.
"Mary I'm going to Toronto, but I should be back by the end of the week!" He called, before going outside and shutting the door.
From the other room, Mary rushed to the spot where the two men were just moments before. Looking around, and seeing nothing, she just sighed.
"I'm gonna kill em'." She told the empty room.
Thursday afternoon at exactly three thirty-five PM, Nero was finished with school. He sprinted out of the building right as the bell rang, to see his mother. The doctors said she had a month at most, and Nero wasn't going to waste a single moment. His feet hammered against the slick, wet asphalt, while he concentrated on getting to the hospital. If he took Oak as opposed to Vernon, he could cut his time and distance in half, but if he stuck on his current route then he would be able to go through the front entrance, and avoid jumping the gate. He made his decision when he took a sharp left and continued along Vernon. Exactly four miles east of him, his father was doing the exact same thing.
He could fell his breath catch in his throat. In front of him, Irene lay stock still in the hospital bed. Her breathing was barely perceptible, the monitor mimicking the sound of her beating heart. Sherlock was unsure about how he should proceed, he didn't exactly want to wake her, but the whole reason he was there was for them to speak. Though, his indecision was proven unnecessary when John walked in. His breath came out in shallow bursts. Sherlock looked him over.
"Why are you out of breath?"
"Because somebody decided it would make more sense to sprint a mile and a bloody half, instead of just calling a taxi cab!" John exclaimed.
"Hello?"
Both men stared at the partially conscious woman. She extended her arms over her head to stretch, a yawn escaping her mouth as she slowly opened her eyes. When she caught sight of the detective and his doctor her eyes widened in surprise. Sherlock smirked, he opened his mouth to speak.
"You're alive." John stated.
Sherlock turned his head around to the smaller man in irritation. Hewas the one seeing Irene, it was only fitting that he should have the first word.
Irene smiled. "Yes."
Sherlock felt he should say something. "Why did you call me?"
"I suppose it's straight to business then," The woman sighed, "John, may we have a moment?"
John scrunched his face as if he were contemplating his answer. "Um, no?"
"John." Sherlock snapped.
John gave both of the others a long, slightly disapproving look, before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.
"You're the one of the few people I can trust, Sherlock." Irene said.
Sherlock sat down in a nearby chair. "I'm flattered."
"We're probably past pleasantries, and you have a right to know this as soon as you can. We have a child." Irene said.
Sherlock tilted his head to the right. "Um, no we don't."
"He's eleven years old, and his name is Nero."
Eleven years ago. The night after Karachi, Sherlock remembered it clearly, though it rarely came to focus. He supposed it made sense, there was a 2.78% chance that it would happen, but for some reason the statistics meant nothing to Sherlock. He didn't give a damn about the statistics, or even his own son. What mattered to him, and what infuriated him was that she had the audacity to keep something that important from him! Not only that, but for eleven years.
Sherlock's fists clenched, his breathing became irregular, he could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, and he was furious.
"Eleven years. You kept this from me, for eleven years!" He yelled.
Irene scoffed. "What would you have preferred? Was there ever anything romantic between us? Even if there was, you "died" three years after he was born. We couldn't raise a child together, we're much too similar."
Sherlock bit his bottom lip. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"You're his father, and I'm dying. You're his only family left."
At that comment, Sherlock got out of his seat. He took the nearest thing he could grab (in this case a potted plant) and hurdled it against the hospital room's wall.
"Did you ever stop to think, that I DON'T WANT A CHILD?"
Nero got to the hospital in fifteen minutes flat, the mental route he created had originally took fourteen, but he had a brief collision with an overzealous police officer who insisted on making sure that then eleven-year old wasn't being chased.
He walked down the spotless corridor, fluorescent white lights glaring blindingly against the tile, the hall reeking of cleaning ammonia. He was ten yards away from his mother's room when he caught sight of somebody leaning lazily against the wall. Nero recognized this person as John Watson, his biological father's faithful companion.
John's frame twisted to see Nero coming towards him at a steady pace. The boy ended up a good foot away from the doctor, and leaned against the same wall. John looked amusedly at the young boy beside him.
"Hello."
Nero looked up and smiled politely. "Hello."
"Can I help you with anything?" John asked.
"Probably not," Nero responded.
He extended his hand. "My name is Nero, and if I'm correct then you must be John Watson."
John warily shook the boy's hand. "How did you know that?"
The man was suspicious, as he should be. A young boy whom he had never encountered in his life knew his name, and looked strangely familiar, though at the time John couldn't gather as to why.
"I've seen your face before," Nero answered simply. He examined the hand that enveloped his own. "You can tell a lot about a person from their handshake."
John took his hand back, and crossed his arms. "Can you tell anything about me from mine?"
Nero's eyebrows knitted in concentration. Mentally, he ran through a list of deductions which he had made about the man that he had met not five minutes prior. "Well, people communicate their strength upon meeting somebody for the first time. If it's weak, then you know they don't want to impose, and if it's overbearing then you know that the person is concentrating all his effort on getting you to understand that they're the strong ones in the relationship. Yours is firm, but you used to grab much harder. You've loosed up, but subconsciously it's still a habit for you. Almost as if you're trying to prove your own power...Did you use to have a limp?"
John gaped. "Yes I did, but it was psychological."
Nero nodded in acknowledgment. "That's what I thought. Is Sherlock Holmes in there?" He pointed to the door to his far left. John opened his mouth to reply, but was unable to do so due to the sudden spike in volume from inside within the room.
"-think that I DON'T WANT A CHILD?" The faceless voice boomed.
John jumped back in alarm. Nero settled himself further down the wall, not seeming very surprised at the angry comment that had been shouted. John reached for the door handle.
"You don't have to do that, he'll be out in a couple of seconds." Nero said, before the army doctor could twist the knob.
Almost immediately after Nero said that, the hospital door swung open, and Sherlock Holmes stormed out.
"We're going." He snapped.
John prepared to disagree. "Wait a damn second, I-"
But Sherlock wasn't listening anymore, his attention was focused solely on the preteen in front of him. The boy was leaning awkwardly against the hallway wall, the top half of his face partially hidden by a layer of sleek, black bangs. Sherlock didn't feel in control of himself. His hand seemed to move at it's own accord as it gently tucked a stray hair behind the child's ear.
Nero's head whipped up at the unfamiliar touch against his skin, and for a moment, he stared into a pair of eyes which were so shockingly similar to his own. Neither Holmes' dared to blink in fear of destroying whatever was occurring at that very moment. Nero broke first, the harsh sterilized air burning his eyes to the point where he was forced to blink back tears. Then it was finished. Sherlock hurriedly turned his heel and hastened down the hall without another glance.
John had silently observed the anomalous sight which had occurred in front of him, and didn't move even after his companion had turned away. Halfway down the hall, Sherlock registered that John wasn't following as he usually did, and that didn't help his fragile state of mind.
"John!" Sherlock hollered.
Nero flinched almost imperceptibly, and John shook himself out of his surprised stupor. He glanced at the boy for a brief moment before catching up the Sherlock. The eleven-year old watched the englishmen's receding forms vanish before he walked into the room, and went straight into his mother's bed. He didn't say anything, but Irene understood that he didn't need to be spoken too, he needed to be held.
So that's what she did.
She held her little boy, and when she heard him try and choke back a sob, she held him tighter.
Sherlock's reaction didn't surprise Irene. In fact, their encounter went almost exactly as she had pictured. Well, almost being the important word. She hadn't pictured Nero getting caught in the midst of everything, and later feel an overwhelming sense of abandonment from both of his parents. She also hadn't pictured him running away the next day.
Nero hadn't gone back to their home that evening, he chose instead to stay at the hospital so he wouldn't have to be alone. Early in the morning Irene heard him get out of bed, and leave. Under the assumption that he was going to school, she drifted back to sleep. Only when the school called to tell her that her son wasn't there that day, did she realize that something was amiss. She tried calling him, but each time she rang the phone would go straight to voicemail.
Technically she was bed ridden, her doctors wouldn't allow her to get out for more than a few minutes in fear of her collapsing, but Irene sure as hell wasn't going idly wait around for somebody to call and say that they've found Nero's dead body. Slipping on an overcoat, she walked out of the hospital with a cane, and her purse. Her phone was in her hand, the second she got outside she dialed the only person who could help her.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"I honestly didn't think you'd pick up the phone."
"What could you possibly want now?" Sherlock begged.
"Nero's run away, I'm waiting outside of Gabriel's and I need you to come with me." She stated.
"Why should I?" Sherlock snapped.
"Please." She asked with a hint of desperation.
There was a long pause. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
Irene caught the use of I'll as opposed to we'll, which meant that John wasn't coming along. It also meant that Sherlock wanted to talk, or even better, was warming up to the idea of taking Nero in.
A grey toyota pulled up to the curb in front of her. She got in, laying her cane in the back seat. Sherlock glanced at her quickly before starting up the car, exiting the hospital parking lot.
"We have fifty-three minutes," Irene stated. Sherlock's whole body was rigid as a plank. His fingers were gripping the steering wheel so hard that the knuckles of his hands had turned a semi-translucent white. "Where do we start?"
Sherlock slammed on the breaks in shock.
"How should I know? I hardly laid eyes on him!" He exclaimed.
Irene raised an eyebrow.
"This is what you do. Want to impress me? Deduce." She challenged.
Sherlock was astonished by the woman beside him, she was manipulative, she was clever, and she was going to give him grief. Actually, when he thought about it, she already had. He was prepared to say no, drop her on a street somewhere and never return, but he never could resist showing off.
He thought back to the corridor where he had encountered Nero.
Clothes still damp, shoes muddy from the ground outside, lightly trodden. He came from someplace no longer than fifteen minutes away, most likely his school, and had sprinted the whole way. A scrape on his right knee, faded bruising on his left cheek, he was in a fight. No, he didn't fight back, they beat him up easily. This happened regularly.
Upper middle class, he's neither spoiled nor neglected. Shy, doesn't like confrontation, two friends, but neither of them are very close to him. He doesn't like complete isolation, but he prefers to be left to his own devices. People watching attracts him.
Recognition in his eyes. He knows who I am.
He's only been here for twelve- no, thirteen minutes. In Irene's room I shouted my opposition to the idea of a child, he heard me. He knows who I am.
He likes dogs, he walks the neighbor's chocolate lab.
He knows who I am.
Why isn't he saying anything? Should I say something?
He's afraid, he's keeping his distance.
Sherlock left his mind palace, and returned to the interior of the grey toyota.
He only said one thing before driving to their destination.
"Train station."
They got to the station in twelve minutes, Sherlock stopped in the red, and went to help Irene out of the car. She held a hand up to stop him.
"I can manage on my own, right now you need to get Nero before he decides to go to on a sudden trip to Montreal."
Sherlock was about to point out the low probability of that happening, but instead, ran inside the building. Irene watched as he disappeared. When she no longer saw him, she climbed into the driver's seat, and drove away.
Inside, Nero sat alone on a train station bench. He watched the diverse array of bodies whizz past, making up a unique story for each of them. He saw a woman dragging along a suitcase, and chattering happily on her phone.
She's talking to her sister in New Zealand, they're going to meet up for the holidays, and she wants to see that new Chaplin exhibit next week.
A young man sprinted past, his duffle bag slipping further and further off of his shoulder.
He's a secret agent, but he's on holiday. The president of the United States just requested his assistance, the White House is under attack.
Nero stifled a giggle. People watching became extremely entertaining when you turn them into your personal storybook. He looked around for another person to pick when somebody caught his eye. Tall, pale, a mop of wavy black hair atop his head, and crystal blue eyes. Nero openly stared, not only because this was the last person who he expected to see, but because he was walking straight towards him.
Sherlock took a seat directly beside Nero, their arms rested only an inch away from each other.
"A train station. The one place where you could travel virtually anywhere in the continent, and you choose to sit on the station's bench," Nero made no response. "Says a lot about your character."
"Doesn't everything." He questioned.
He glanced up and saw that Sherlock's eyes had shut briefly. He realized that the man had probably never heard him speak before.
"Your mother was worried."
"She was?"
Nero hadn't expected his mother to care about his absence very much, he had disappeared for short periods of time in the past, and she always knew where he had gone. Even if he never told her specifically where.
"Well, she had to be if she went so far as to call me."
"She could have found me herself."
"No, supposedly she's bed ridden. I ended up as the chauffeur."
"Maybe she was trying to get us to bond."