Disclaimer: I'm a woman, and since all the copyright owners are men, you can probably deduce I'm not one of them. Probably.
A/N: Just an idea that popped into my head and wouldn't let me work until I wrote it, which means you guys get two new stories today instead of one! This might turn into a series of oneshots or vignettes; I like to keep the possibilities open. So, if you'd like to see more, let me know, and if you have any ideas or scenarios you'd like to see, don't hesitate to make suggestions ^_^. Hope you like it!
Sherlock Meet Sherlock
The moment Sherlock Holmes placed one foot on English soil his only concern was getting to Baker Street. He had spent three long arduous years away from his home and he wanted nothing else than to cross the threshold of 221B and see his best friend again. He didn't know how John would take it, but he wasn't concerning himself with that. All he knew was that it had been too long, and against all expectation, he had come to miss John Watson more than anything else. In the end, his need to return to his home and friend had become almost overpowering, fueling his hunt for Moriarty's organization faster and faster; anything which would bring him closer to home.
Now he was racing down the streets of London in a cab, having promised the driver a hefty sum of money if he delivered him to Baker Street NOW. He hadn't even contacted Mycroft or attended a debriefing. He knew his brother was aware he'd returned since he'd charted the plane that brought him back and he'd been on top of every detail of Sherlock's hunt. He also knew had explicit orders to go to the Diogenes Club, but in Sherlock's mind that could wait. His reunion with the doctor was much more pressing.
This is why he thoroughly ignored Mycroft's repeated calls and texts, not even batting an eye at the Sherlock, don't go to Baker Street order.
The cab arrived in front of Speedy's, and Sherlock chucked several hundred pounds worth of notes at the driver, leapt out of the vehicle and rushed to the door. The early pre-morning air was chilly, but the blood was pumping through the detective's veins and he barely felt its sting. Hastily unlocking the door, Sherlock almost ran up the seventeen steps, bounding over two at a time, and barging into the flat's living room triumphantly.
'John!' he cried as he entered the empty room, before stilling completely. Breathing heavily, Sherlock turned about in a circle surveying the room almost in shock. The flat hadn't undergone many changes, but the subtle ones that Sherlock could instantly detect spoke volumes. The flowers on the window sill and on the table, the nice, soft-colored curtains, the pastoral picture frames and tasteful figurines, the signs of two distinct people living in the flat – the two chairs clearly in use, the two laptops on opposite sides of the table, the double set of dishes and utensils that could just be seen in the kitchen dishrack.
Sherlock approached the mantelpiece hesitantly, sidestepping the new rug that covered half of the living room, and stared at the items there. His skull was still there on one side, recently dusted and purposely positioned toward the room, as was the penknife he'd once stuck into the woodwork on the other side. Both objects spoke of care and appreciation, and Sherlock felt his heart swell momentarily at the thought of John keeping and maintaining both items. However, the middle of the mantelpiece was taken up by items that were most definitely new, and were currently causing the detective's mind to falter and stutter incoherently.
Right in the middle was the most shocking thing Sherlock could ever have hoped to find in Baker Street: an inscribed wedding plate with the words
John & Mary Watson
May the Ties of Their Love Never Be Undone.
Sherlock stared at it intently for what could have been hours but were in reality only minutes. The words seemed almost foreign; their meaning had to be something other than the meaning his mind was providing, because it simply could not be true. Tearing his eyes from the plate, his eyes drifted to the left of it where a picture was propped at an angle toward the room. It featured a smiling John Watson dressed in a gray wedding tux standing almost next to an equally smiling red-haired woman in a white wedding dress. John had his arms wrapped around her, resting his face against the side of her head lovingly, as they both stared at the camera with matching joyful expressions.
Sherlock felt himself hyperventilating, and he clutched the sides of the fireplace to keep himself from tilting. Married? How can John be married?
His mind continued to dart around this question over and over, refusing to accept the evidence his eyes were giving him. John was married, and he was living here at Baker Street with his wife. Sherlock hesitantly glanced at the wedding plate again, noting the date printed in small curlicued letters was that of two years ago.
Two years, John had been married for two years and Sherlock had been none the wiser. Suddenly he recalled Mycroft's insistent texts and cursed his brother for failing to mention this detail before. He was going to throttle the elder Holmes.
He then wondered where the Watsons were. It was quite early in the morning, but no one had noticed his boisterous entrance. Could they still be sleeping? The thought almost made Sherlock shudder involuntarily. He had the instinctive desire to run away, but Sherlock Holmes had been running and chasing for three years, and he wasn't about to be driven from his home or from his closest friend, not for any woman. Still, discretion, an almost foreign concept to Sherlock, was perhaps advisable.
The door to his old room was closed shut and it stood to reasons that the wedded couple would have moved into this room rather than John's smaller room upstairs. With uncharacteristic nervousness, Sherlock raised a hand and tentatively knocked on the door. Sure, he could wait for them to wake up, but what was the point in that? He'd have to wait who knows how long, and the result would be the same – John would find out that the detective had never died.
There was no response, so Sherlock knocked again more forcefully. When no response was forthcoming, he grabbed the knob and silently twisted it, swinging the door open slowly. His attentions, however, were unneeded for the room was empty. Nonetheless, Sherlock noted that he had been right in his deduction that John had moved to this room. The bed was covered with a floral duvet, though hastily made, and a new and larger dresser stood opposite it, full of feminine products.
Sherlock frowned as he observed the room; it looked as if it had been tidied up either in a hurry or absentmindedly or both, and some of the drawers in the dresser were still half-opened as though the last person to go through them had done so quickly and with little regard for organization.
Still, the question remained, where were the Watsons?
Sherlock considered phoning Mycroft, but he refused to give up so easily. Leaving the bedroom, Sherlock once again inspected the living room, this time looking for specific details. The kitchen proved to be the greatest source of information as Sherlock discovered two small baby bottles drying in the sink among the other dishes. The sight of it sent another cold wave through the genius, but he put it away for further contemplation later. Inspecting the kitchen he discovered empty boxes of recent takeout in the trash bin on top of the remains of a broken glass, although what the latter meant, Sherlock wasn't sure.
Someone had wiped down the countertop and table, but had, as in the bedroom, done a poor job at it. Turning in a circle in the living room, Sherlock concluded that something had happened that had made the two Watsons leave the flat hurriedly. However, John's shoes and coat were currently placed and hung by the door which meant he was still in the apartment.
The detective glanced toward the upstairs room and made his way up to the second landing. The door was slightly ajar, and Sherlock was momentarily annoyed that in his excitement he hadn't noticed it as he came in.
He pushed the door gently, making it swing noiselessly on its hinges, and froze as he caught sight of his best friend. John was sitting in a rocking chair completely asleep, his neck twisted to the side as his head lolled against the backrest. But what froze Sherlock the most was the fact that John was sitting next to a crib which was occupied by what the detective could only imagine to be a tiny Watson.
Sherlock didn't even realize when he crossed the room to look in the crib. Indeed, as he'd suspected, it contained a small baby, a boy if he went by the blankets' color, and a newborn judging by size. The infant was sleeping peacefully, his tiny pink face scrunched up from slumber.
John's son! This is John's son!
A silent gasp broke his thoughts and Sherlock's head whipped around to come face to face with the startled doctor.
Immediately Sherlock noticed the dark bags underneath John's eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, the unkempt state of his clothes and hair, and the overall exhaustion that radiated from the smaller man.
John was staring at him with wide almost frightened eyes, and Sherlock suspected that if it wasn't because he was sitting down, the doctor would have likely collapsed from shock.
"Oh my God." whispered John.
"Hello John."
John let out another gasp upon hearing Sherlock's voice.
"What does this mean?" John's words confused the detective, until he remembered that the man was convinced he was dead, and now he was standing here over his child's crib in the early hours of the morning. The doctor was also, as Sherlock had noticed, clearly exhausted, so he would probably be chalking up Sherlock's appearance as some kind of hallucination.
"I'm real John. I'm not a ghost, as if you'd believe in that, and neither are you crazy or imagining things. I'm here."
John's eyes grew even bigger, and he shook his head frantically.
"No, no you're dead… you're dead Sherlock. Oh my God." John's breath was short and rapid, and his hands griped the armrests of the rocking chair as though it was his only anchor to reality.
Slowly Sherlock approached John, continuing to keep his voice down.
"I'm not dead John. I was always alive. I couldn't tell you before, but now I can. I've come back."
"It can't be… I've.. I've dreamt so many times… it can't be."
"It is John! Look at me. I'm here." In an attempt to prove this, Sherlock placed his hands on top of John's, eliciting another gasp from the doctor. Their faces were almost touching as they stared at each other in the early morning gloom for the first time in three years.
John opened his mouth to speak before being interrupted by a whimpering cry. The doctor's eyes immediately switched to the crib.
"Sherlock!" he whispered, bolting past the stunned detective and reaching into the cot.
The younger man stood speechless watching as John expertly placed his hands underneath the infant's small body and lifted him up, cradling him to his chest.
"Shhhh, it's ok… daddy's here … shhh." whispered John, gently rubbing his thumb across the back of his son's head as he held it against him.
The babe quieted down almost immediately, his cries dwindling down to small whimpers.
"Yes, I know you're hungry…. Let's go get you some food."
Sherlock watched the interaction wordlessly, feeling his chest tighten unexpectedly at the scene. Had he just heard John call his baby… no, it couldn't have been. Then John looked back at him as though surprised he was still there and had not vanish into the morning light.
"Well… I'm not entirely sure you're really there yet… I might need to punch you to be properly convinced… but for now I'm not letting you out of my sight, so come along." John said calmly, although Sherlock could hear the nervous tint underneath.
Following John out of the room and down the stairs, Sherlock found himself back in the kitchen he'd been riffling through minutes before. Holding the baby with one hand and slightly tilting himself backward so that the child would still rest against his chest, John fished out a milk bottle from the fridge. He then turned to Sherlock, still eying the detective with distrust, still expecting the specter of his best friend to disappear back unto the ether from where it came.
"Would you fill that pot with water up to the middle?" he pointed to the utensil in the dishrack and glanced back at the other man challengingly, as though expecting the detective to say 'You caught me, I'm not really here after all.'
Sherlock smiled and shook his head in disbelief, but acquiesced to John's request. Filling the pot he placed it on the stove top and turned it on, imagining John wanted to warm up his child's milk. John stared at the pot, then at the bottle in his hand, and then at his son.
"Well… it certainly looks like it's there, doesn't it? Either that, or I've cracked up magnificently… but, all things considered, that seems unlikely." With half a shrug, John placed the bottle in the pot and set the timer on the microwave for ten minutes. He then nudged a chair out from under the table and sat down, continuing to contemplate Sherlock as though he was a puzzle he must solve.
"You're alive." This was a statement, but there was a request of agreement in it as well.
"Yes. You're married."
"Yes." John narrowed his eyes. "You made me believe you were dead."
"I had to. You named your child after me."
"Sherlock! That's not a proper answer."
"Your previous answer was equally unsatisfactory and uninformative."
John took a calming breath, focusing on the babe in his arms for a few moments before returning his attention to the detective.
"Let's do this by order of relevance. How is it that you're alive?"
"I'm not sure I agree with your order of relevance. Certainly I'm more interested in learning how you came to be married and have a child." Sherlock raised a hand to stop John's protests, "That said, I will submit to your questions."
"I faked my death; the jump, the body, is was prearranged with Molly from the morgue. I wasn't sure I'd have to do it, and it was certainly… difficult." Sherlock hesitated for a moment, finding it hard to explain and even harder to voice his emotions. His mind drifted back to that horrible day three years before. "Moriarty had snipers fixed on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. They had orders to take you out if I didn't jump. Afterwards… I only planned to find the snipers and get rid of the threat they posed, but Mycroft convinced me I had a once in a lifetime opportunity to dismantle Moriarty's entire operation."
John stared at the table in front of him, processing the information.
"John?"
"What?" replied the doctor after a few more seconds of silence.
"You are angry with me." He stated.
"Yes… I think so." he breathed another calming breath.
"But you aren't yelling…. I expected yelling."
John chuckled softly and shook his head.
"To tell you the truth Sherlock, I'm not yet entirely convinced I'm not dreaming. That said, I am angry, but I have my son in my arms; I'm not about to start screaming my head off as much as I might want to."
"Ah, yes, that makes sense." Sherlock regarded his best friend closely still disbelieving he could be married with a kid. He'd always suspected John might get married someday, it seemed like the type of thing he'd do, but he'd never really considered it within real terms.
"You've been married for two years."
John offered a small smile, getting up momentarily to retrieve the warmed bottle from the stove when the microwave's timer beeped. He tapped the tip of the bottle against the hand that held the boy, testing the temperature before he carefully shifted the baby into the crook of his left arm, and held the bottle up to his lips. The newborn started suckling almost instantly, his eyes drifting shut in comfort.
"Yeah," John replied absentmindedly. "I met Mary shortly after you… you know. We were married a year after."
"Where is she?" Sherlock had noted the strange absence of the child's mother, but he wasn't sure what to make of it. The appearance of the flat gave the impression that the two were not experiencing any marital issues, quite the opposite, so he didn't think she would be living somewhere else. Besides, what woman would leave her newborn child? The alternatives didn't sound any cheerier.
"She's in the hospital."
"Ah."
"There were complications, - two weeks premature, breech birth, that means he didn't turn properly, C-section, and so forth, - it was touch and go for a few hours. But she's.. better now. She'll be a bit weak for a few weeks, but the doctors are sure she'll be perfectly fine." John sounded tired, but the relief in his voice was evident. He'd been afraid of losing his wife, and couldn't be more relieved to know that wouldn't be the case.
Sherlock frowned slightly, "When was he born? I thought they kept them in hospital for longer."
"He was born seven days ago" John replied proudly, "He's preterm, but only slightly, which means he's hardly in any risk at all in that respect, but the breech and the C-section meant that he'd have to stay in the hospital for a couple of weeks. However, the hospital was hit by a sudden wave of infection, and it's full to the brim with very sick people. The doctors, Mary and I decided two days ago that it was safer to bring him home and care for him here. Nonetheless, Mary had to stay at the hospital; she's being discharged in two days, maybe sooner depending."
"You'd rather be at the hospital right now."
"I'd rather my wife was with me right now, no matter the place. She should be doing this instead of me; holding our child and looking at him and feeding him, not alone in a hospital room. But we can't risk his health given all the complications he had. One of the nurses has been lending Mary her computer so that we can Skype and she can see him. It's not enough but it's something."
Sherlock nodded mutely; his mind was still trying to process the notion that John was a father, let alone a husband. He had so many questions, how they'd met, who she was, what their relationship was like, that he didn't know where to start.
"You… you named him.." Sherlock left the question hanging.
"'Sherlock', yes." The doctor smile widened.
"You might want to change it now that I'm… alive."
John's smile faded into a frown. "You don't like it?"
"Yes! I mean, no I do like it.. I'm … I'm flattered, I merely meant that if you did it in my honor… or memory or whatever, you don't have to now, because I'm alive. You can name him something… normal."
John was staring at Sherlock with disbelief. "You idiot, we didn't name him 'Sherlock' just because you were dead. We would have named him that even if you were alive. You're my bloody best friend, and besides, I like your name, alright! I want my son to have it."
Sherlock stared at John in confusion. "You like it? You mean.. it's not out of some primitive sense of duty?"
"Sherlock, you've just won yourself another punch to the face, this one for not using that brilliant mind of yours."
A small smile threatened to break on the detective's face. "No one's liked my name before." He whispered softly.
John resisted rolling his eyes, feeling the need to reassure the genius instead of mock him for his obliviousness. "Well I do, and Mary does, and he will, so there, that's three people who like your name. So Sherlock meet Sherlock, because that's my son's name and I wouldn't change it for the world. Now shut up and make me some breakfast; I've an armful of newborn, I haven't slept properly in a week and my best friend just returned from the dead. I'm starving!"
The End (for now?)