Disclaimer: I don't own any of this… Well, maybe some of it, but certainly not the rights to the characters or the plot of the episode A Scandal in Belgravia. I have been to 221B Baker Street, though. Which has nothing to do with anything, other than it being awesome. Anyway, all rights to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC! I doubt they'll ever get around to reading this, but if they ever did it might be kind of honor to be sued by them. Having said that, please don't sue me.
Author's Note: Hello! This is an idea that's been rolling around in my head for a few days, and I thought I'd go ahead and put it out there. It's just a quick one shot, a sketch of sorts, set many years down the road. I thought it was interesting, so I hope you enjoy it. :)
With All My Heart
...
His mobile was ringing.
Sherlock Holmes grumbled a bit to himself, and leaned over to click on his bed side lamp, and get a look at the time. It was just early enough to still be dark out, but late enough to where he didn't feel a particular loss at being awaken.
Oh yes, he should probably answer that.
Sherlock threw his legs over the side of his bed, and rubbed his eyes for a moment before walking over to his desk that overlooked the early morning just outside his bedroom window, and pressed a button on the device that he only had rare occasion to use. He didn't like it, anyway, the way people could see him when he spoke to them now. To be fair, he didn't like when people could hear him, either, which is why he had always preferred speaking through text... But someone, namely whomever was on the other side of the device, must not have seen it the same way as he did.
He sat down at his desk in front of the wide mobile screen, and waited for the picture to load.
After a few moments, he was greeted with the face of a much younger man - one that sparked familiarity for a split second longer than it sparked recognition, and then Sherlock knew why.
"Hello, Sir." The Younger man said in an American accent.
"Jonathan." Sherlock said with a curt nod of his head by way of a greeting, though it wasn't completely without warmth.
He'd only spoken to Jonathan on a few occasions. The last was to congratulate him on his marriage, the time before that was to congratulate him on his graduation from University in America, and the first time had been for Jonathan to inform Sherlock that he was his father.
"Always good to hear from you." Sherlock finished, though his face was impassive. It had taken him years to come to terms with the fact that he had fathered a child, though he almost still couldn't believe it. He had never met the boy in person, and by the time he had even become aware of his existence, he had been well grown and passed the age where Sherlock could have had any fatherly influence... So, really, for all intents and purposes, the old detective's life, save for sending money on holidays and birthdays, had not really changed at all.
Except, of course, it had.
Even now, looking upon Jonathan Adler's face, he could not help but feel an intense sense of pride at how well the boy had turned out... Even if he had had very little to do with it.
"Sir..." Jonathan trailed off, and Sherlock suddenly became aware of his slightly puffy eyes, and the splotchy red patches on his cheeks. He'd been crying - perhaps even just before making this phone call. "It's mom."
Sherlock's heart jolted.
"What about your mother?" He asked quietly.
"She..." He took a deep breath. "She had a heart attack." A pause. "She died an hour ago."
Time was Sherlock would have been able to remain stoic. When he was younger, he could have stared straight in to this screen and told his son that he didn't care, that he had never cared. The years had changed him in that regard, for now all the old man could do was let out a weak sob.
"No..." He nearly whimpered, and his shaking hand went to his mouth.
"I thought you would want to know." His son said sadly.
"Yes, of course."
"She had a will. There's a letter for you." He looked around as though the letter was within sight. "It's sealed, so I don't know what it says... but there'll be a funeral in London. I could give it to you then."
Sherlock took his hand down and stared his son in the eyes. It didn't need to be said, but it was heartbreaking to realize the first time he would come face to face with his own child was at his mother's funeral.
"Jonathan, I'm so sorry." Sherlock let out. Jonathan stared at his father quietly. "For your mother... and for being a terrible father."
The young man's eyes filled with tears, but he didn't cry.
"My mother raised me to believe that my father loved me." He said simply. "And I believed her."
Sherlock nodded, clenching his fists against the pain in his chest.
"Rightly so." He responded, a tear slipping from his eyelash.
Jonathan gave a small smile and nod at that.
"I'll give you the details when I know more." He said, and Sherlock knew the conversation was over. His son was like him in that way - he liked to keep things short and to the point.
"Yes, please do." The old man agreed.
His son nodded once more, and then the screen went black. Sherlock stared at the device for a few moments before taking a shuddering breath... and then breaking down in to tears.
...
The retired Doctor Watson poured a glass of whiskey for his friend, though Sherlock was never really one for drinking, and then one for himself.
"So, you have a son." He said, taking a sip from his glass, settling in to his old chair that Sherlock had kept and had brought here with him to his cottage when he had moved out to the country.
"Yes, I have." Sherlock responded, setting his glass on the table next to his old chair.
"Does this son have a name?" John asked, seeming less surprised about the whole thing than Sherlock would have ever given him credit for.
"Jonathan Adler." He responded, and now John did look surprised. "Don't get excited. It was Irene who named him."
And with that, the taller took a drink from his whiskey. John eyed him carefully.
"Did you love her?" He asked.
Sherlock swirled the amber liquid in his glass, and then met his friend's gaze.
"I admired her." He responded.
"Yes, but did you love her?"
The one time detective laughed shortly and then set his glass back down.
"With all my heart." He admitted for the first, the last, and the only time. He could admit it just this once to his best and oldest friend. He could admit it the day The Woman died.
John Watson smiled sadly at his friend, and then held up his glass.
"To Irene Adler." He said.
Sherlock tilted his head and was still for a moment before picking up his glass yet again, and holding it up next to John's.
"To The Woman." He corrected. "The Woman."
The two men clinked their glasses together, and then sipped in honor of Irene Adler, the one woman who had ever mattered to Sherlock Holmes.
...