It had been a day like any other, one where Sherlock found himself on the sofa with a needle in his arm, trying to get his thoughts to calm down, trying to make everything feel like less. He was certain the day would continue in the same way as it usually did, perhaps with an experiment or if he was lucky a case. Though he had to pretend he wasn't high, since the new detective inspector while more open to Sherlock's aid than anyone else, still refused to work with him when he was like this. Sherlock had started plenty of arguments with him about it, but Lestrade wouldn't back down. He was a stubborn man after all.
Sherlock's reverie was interrupted by the sound of the bell and then muffled voices. Sherlock started to hide the evidence before he heard the footsteps heading up the stairs and slumped back onto the sofa in irritation, just before Mycroft appeared in the entryway. He barely reacted to the sight of Sherlock, leading Sherlock to the conclusion that Mycroft had already been well aware of what Sherlock was up to. That only infuriated Sherlock further.
Sherlock refused to speak. He wouldn't break the silence, and he even decided he wouldn't reply to anything Mycroft said either. There was no point. Mycroft would already have everything planned out in his own mind about what Sherlock would think and say. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to keep the emotions from his high, trying to keep the feeling of being away from the world, even while his world came to him destroying the illusion completely in the voice of Mycroft Holmes.
"And here I thought you had given up such trivialities in order to continue working." Mycroft said as he sat in an armchair, facing Sherlock. Sherlock refused to speak which didn't surprise Mycroft in the least, he merely sighed and leaned back against the sofa. "I've come into some information that may or may not be interesting to you." He said, still watching Sherlock who didn't even move at his words. He rolled his eyes and sat forward a bit. "I'm sure you remember Irene." He said, still not surprised when Sherlock didn't reply but shifted just slightly showing that he had caught his attention just a bit. "You always were intrigued by her." He added, drawing out the story just to irritate Sherlock.
"It has come to my attention that she died a few months ago." He said, deciding not to sugarcoat it. That finally got a reaction, which was merely Sherlock turning to look at him, obviously aware that Mycroft would have known before now and wondering why Mycroft chose now to tell him.
Mycroft waited, not speaking yet, letting his brother wait before he spoke again. "She had a daughter. Were you aware?" He asked, watching Sherlock closely, the slight widening of his eyes was enough to know he wasn't aware. Mycroft nodded. "She's 5 years old." He said again, watching him still, watching him do the calculations in his head and finally come to a conclusion which only left him more confused than before. "Yes." Mycroft replied to Sherlock's unasked questions. Yes Mycroft was aware when she had the child and yes the child is in fact Sherlock's.
Sherlock leaned back onto the sofa as if it was of no interest to him, even as his mind ran over the information, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do with it. He was slightly terrified that he would have been put in charge of the child and that was not something Sherlock could do, or that any sane person would allow.
Mycroft once again seemed to read his brother as he spoke. "She has recently been adopted, by an ex-soldier." He said, before setting down a file he'd been carrying onto the coffee table. "In case you're at all interested." He said before standing. "Obviously you couldn't take the child. I myself would have spoken against you caring for even a pet." He murmured before leaving, making Sherlock glare at the door, though he couldn't actually blame Mycroft at all. He couldn't even take care of himself. And he couldn't say he cared about the unknown child. Though he had to admit he was curious and soon found the papers in the file scattered around him.
Sherlock thought he should have been more affected by Irene's death. She was interesting at the very least. He was sure Mycroft thought him more attached than he actually was. In some ways she was something that interested him and he wanted to understand more of her and in some ways she was an experiment, they went hand in hand really. When he was finished with his experiment he had left her. She became dull rather quickly when he had learned all he could about her. She became predictable and when that happened there was nothing more for him to get out of her.
He did feel some small loss at her death. She was still probably the most interesting person he had met. And of course there was some sort of connection he felt with her. But now there was nothing left of her, or them. Well except for their child, apparently. That was an enigma in itself. Sherlock had seen Irene after the point where the child would have been conceived and yet she had been able to hide it from him. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was more irritated by that or impressed. Either way he now knew he had a child in the world. A five year old child. He had paced his flat for a long time trying to figure out what to do with the information.
Initially he had tossed it aside, deciding it didn't matter, it was just a child and he had no reason to feel any sentiment toward a being he had never met. He never felt any sentiment toward anyone anyway. Perhaps Irene had been the closest, or maybe even Mrs. Hudson, his landlady. There was something about her that had drawn Sherlock in, knowing that he would do anything to protect her. He still didn't consider it sentiment, more perhaps a sense of obligation in a way. She took care of him so he returned the favor, that was all.
However, try as he might, it seemed he couldn't just toss the idea aside. He found himself drawn to the papers over and over again. He hadn't learned much about the child, just that it was a female and five years old. It didn't even have a photograph, but he was sure Mycroft had left that out on purpose. Sherlock had no idea why and that irritated him further. He didn't like when he didn't understand what Mycroft was planning, and Mycroft was always planning something. He never did anything without thinking at least five moves ahead.
He had learned more about the child's new guardian. His name was Doctor John Watson and he was an ex-soldier who had been wounded in combat. It was rather interesting actually. Sherlock didn't understand why such a person would want a child after all he had been through. It didn't make sense, which only meant that Sherlock was intrigued. Both by the child and by the guardian.
That was how Sherlock found himself outside of the doctor's flat a few days later. It was a small place and Sherlock wasn't even sure how the place had been approved for a child. He knocked and heard the tell-tale sounds of someone coming toward the door to greet an unexpected visitor. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the man. There had been a picture of him in the file, so he wasn't completely taken by surprise by the man at the door. Although the picture he had was taken a few years ago, obviously. He had aged well though, despite the obvious shot to the shoulder and the psychosomatic limp that wasn't mentioned in the file. He thought that was interesting as well. Why would this man think having a child would help his situation? He wasn't sure but he was going to find out. And of course the child being his had nothing to do with it, of course not.
"Euh.. Hello, How can I help you?" The man, John, asked. Sherlock lifted his head a bit, after his appraisal. "I merely have a few questions to ask you. It would be better inside of course." Sherlock responded and quickly ducked into the house before John could respond. He was taken by surprise, which Sherlock was appalled by, he should have known as a soldier with PTSD and a child in the home, he wouldn't have taken well to a stranger marching straight into his house. But nonetheless he found himself smashed against the wall with intense eyes staring at him.
He blinked slowly, the almost shy doctor was gone and in its place was the soldier. Sherlock was beyond intrigued. "I apologize. I should have known better than to startle a soldier with PTSD, especially one who is protecting a child in the home." He said, and for some reason was surprised that the soldier didn't back down but rather looked even more volatile. He wasn't sure what he said wrong there. He frowned slightly before John spoke again. "How do you know that and what do you want?" His words were spoken slowly and harshly, demanding an answer.
Sherlock shrugged as much as he could in his position. "It's obvious." He replied, deciding not to mention the file, though that was easy enough as all of the hints were practically screaming at him. "Even without your agile reflexes and your strength. The way you hold yourself says army along with the haircut, not to mention your tan which is only up to your wrist which shows you weren't out for a vacation but wearing a uniform. Hardly important whether Afghanistan or Iraq. Then there's the bags under your eyes which shows you're not sleeping, could be because of the child, though their age makes it a bit less likely that they're keeping you up all hours of the night, though still possible especially with the recent tragedy. Your psychosomatic limp also points to the PTSD seeing as you limped to the door, by the sound of your gait, but you stood as if you didn't remember the pain and you were far too agile in pinning me to the wall, which I would appreciate it if you'd release me now."
John stared at him, easing up a little, but not yet letting go. "How did you know about the child?" He asked. Sherlock paused for a moment. He didn't want to mention he was the father, not yet, possibly not at all. He tilted his head to the side, observing more and thinking about what he had already observed. "I heard you speaking before you came to the door. Yet no one has come to see what all the commotion was. Could have been on the phone seeing as I didn't hear a reply but then there's the coat on the wall next to your own. I really don't think pink is your color nor that you'd have ever fit that. And of course there was the way your eyes flitted down the hall as if there's some sort of secret in your home or something you don't want anyone finding or hurting. Your child. Well when I say yours…" He shrugged lightly. "You've obviously adopted her."
John finally released Sherlock, but stood so he was in between Sherlock and the rest of the house as a barrier which Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to try and cross again. "How could you possibly know about the adoption?" He asked, making Sherlock smirk a bit.
"Partially a guess, though a good one. You have only one picture on the wall in this hall and it's of you and your sister, obvious by the resemblance and age difference. You obviously cherish family yet you have no photo of the child yet and only one jacket. It's a recent development but she's older than if you just recently had a child yourself. I would guess five years old. She could have been yours with your ex-wife, but again you would have a picture even if you never had custody until now. And before you ask about the ex-wife, you have a tan around your finger where the ring once sat, but again no picture on the wall, no woman's clothing, no scent either. So ex-wife."
John stared at him a moment before letting out a light sigh. "Wow.. That.. That was brilliant." He breathed, making Sherlock start. "Was it?" John nodded, a bit too enthusiastically. "Yeah. Yes it was. You know it was." He replied quickly causing Sherlock to tilt his head in intrigue. "That's not what most people say." Sherlock said quietly, trying to understand this man.
John raised his brows. "Oh? What do most people say?" He asked.
"Piss off." Sherlock replied easily, watching with fascination as the man broke into a smile before laughing softly, almost giggling, causing Sherlock to smirk lightly, feeling something warm inside of him spreading. He hadn't come across too many people that enjoyed his intelligence. There was Irene, but her interest was always less pure. And then there was the detective inspector, but it still wasn't quite the same, there wasn't the same spark in his eyes, the interest was there but only at a level where it helped with his work.
Finally John stopped laughing and cleared his throat. "Right. So.. May I ask why you're here?" He asked, still not moving from in front of Sherlock, blocking him. Sherlock nodded. "You just did, in a way." He muttered before straightening up and glancing at him again, trying to think. "I'm with child services. I know they told you they'd be checking up on you. Probably not for a while yet, but they say that and then spook you randomly. They don't want you to be prepared for them, wanting to surprise you to make sure you're doing well all the time. I'm sure you understand." He supplied quickly with a light smile.
John didn't look too sure for a moment, but he smiled and finally stepped aside, shutting the door behind him and leading the way into the sitting room. Sherlock's eyes glanced around the room seeing more of John's life, more evidence of the child, the ex-wife, and the sister. Finally his eyes settled on the girl sitting on the floor with a Barbie on the ground and some stuffed animals around it. He watched her look up and make eye contact with him. It was odd to look at the girl. She had curls hanging down from her head, almost to her shoulders. They were lighter than Sherlock's hair, but just barely. Her skin was a bit darker than Sherlock's, but she had the high cheekbones though more feminine like Irene. Her eyes were also closer to Irene's, more of a solid blue than the mess of colors that were Sherlock's eyes. She also looked far too thin for a child and not very happy either.
Sherlock always thought of children as either always crying or always laughing, but this child was somewhere in between, some sort of somber attitude that made her seem older than just five. She looked up at him with curiosity, eyes flitting over him in a way that he felt was probably a mirror of his own, though he was sure a child of her age couldn't possibly get the same amount of information he had. He was curious about her intelligence though, knowing the power of his own mind and knowing that Irene wasn't too dim either. But the girl didn't seem ready to talk as most seemed to babble on and on. It wasn't shyness, he noted. There was something lingering behind her eyes keeping her from talking, or even being comfortable.
John cleared his throat causing Sherlock to turn and pay attention to John. "What is she doing?" He asked, looking at the way she was playing and finding he didn't understand it a bit. John shrugged lightly. "I'm not entirely sure."
Sherlock frowned, not happy with that answer. "And you haven't thought to ask her?" He asked. The look John gave was an odd one, he looked a bit confused and maybe even suspicious. "Ask her?" He asked slowly, as if Sherlock was the one that was dim. Sherlock stared back, ready to reply quickly and harshly before something clicked in his mind, the way the girl looked at him, the way he hadn't heard anyone reply behind the door when John said something to the girl, the way John was staring at him like he was an idiot for asking such a question. He thought quickly to fix his situation and keep Johns' suspicion at bay. "Yes. Of course. I'm well aware she hasn't spoken….since her mother's death." He said bluntly causing another look in John's eyes that he ignored. "But I find that if you never ask her things, or never expect her to talk, then it makes it more likely she never will." He said confidently.
John's expression changed again, glancing at the girl with almost a frown before nodding. "Right.. I.. I'll try that, of course." He said quietly. "I just wanted her to settle a bit before anything else." He said quietly, causing Sherlock to nod. Of one thing he was sure, and that was that John would be a decent father. The thought eased him a bit, though he wasn't sure why. He refused to believe that coming here had anything to do with making sure his child was well looked after.
John cleared his throat again. "well.. um.. I assume you want to have a look around?" He asked, standing up. Sherlock nodded, following suit, and deciding he could use this role for more. He followed John around the tiny flat. The girl's bedroom was tiny. It seemed to barely fit her now and definitely wouldn't be ideal for when she got older. John looked a bit sheepish as Sherlock surveyed the room. "I.. Um. I'm planning on moving.. when she gets older. I've started saving up already. She won't be in this room forever." Sherlock nodded, sure that John's room wasn't much better. He headed back to the sitting room and watched the girl for another moment before deciding he had already over-stayed his welcome.
"I'll be out of your hair now." He said, before leaving quickly before John could ask any questions. Sherlock didn't want to think more about the child or the man that was to become her father. He shook his head to rid himself of any emotion that threatened to appear at the thought and quickly made his way home to rid himself of all feeling for just a while.