Pretty sure this is the longest one shot I've ever written! Anyway, it's the beginning of Sherlock and Olly's story and I've tried really hard to get Sherlock as in character as possible. When I watched and interview with Steven Moffat & Mark Gattis they said that Sherlock would want to do the best best man's speech ever because he likes being the best, so I followed that reasoning with his approach to fatherhood, mixed with the fact that he doesn't actually want to be a father. Also, I love Mary and Sherlock's friendship, and love the idea that he confides in her. Enjoy!
Christina x
XOXOXOX
"Stolen painting... Missing daughter... Here's one. Thinks her husband and her sister's been abducted by aliens." John read.
"Sister has run off with husband. Boring," Sherlock replied from the couch. John rolled his eyes at his son, making three year old Jack giggle. Mary had unceremoniously evicted them from the house that morning, claiming urgent respite from the two male Watsons and declaring a girls day for herself and five year old Amy. Naturally John had headed for Baker Street, Jack in tow, where he was now trying to find a case which could stave off all their boredom. He was sure he could convince Mrs Hudson to watch Jack if need be, or if the case wasn't particularly grisly, then he'd take him along with them.
"Here's one marked urgent," John said, returning to the email inbox on Sherlock's phone. He frowned. "It's from someone in your contacts. A George."
Sherlock swung up onto his feet, dressing gown billowing, and stepped over Jack and the coffee table.
"George wouldn't contact me unless it was an emergency," he frowned, pulling the phone away from John.
"Perhaps that's why it's marked urgent," John muttered.
"Don't try and be smart John."
He rolled his eyes again, making Jack giggle again.
"Who is he? George."
"She," Sherlock corrected.
"Alright, who is she then?"
Ignoring him, Sherlock tapped on the email. It was short and succinct:
Sherlock,
Come see me. It's urgent.
George.
Dropping his phone into his pocket and throwing his balled up dressing gown onto the couch, Sherlock announced, "I'm going out." He swung on his Belstaff and grabbed his scarf, already out the door before John could stand up.
"Do you want me to come?" he called after the consulting detective.
"No," came the reply, quickly followed by the slamming of the front door. John turned to his son.
"He is the most infuriating man I've ever met."
XOXOXOX
Before he even entered the house, he'd made several deductions. As soon as he saw George several more flooded his brain. She stayed silent, letting him figure it out as she knew he would.
"How long?" he said eventually.
"Weeks," she replied. "If I'm lucky."
"Why am I here?"
She gave him a look.
"Of course. Obvious."
"Then you'll know what I'm going to say."
He studied her, reading her face. His eyes widened.
"No. No!"
"Sherlock. You have to."
"No," he repeated.
"You sound like a child. It's ridiculous to act like a child when you have a child."
"We had a deal," he reminded her.
"Our deal didn't involve me dying," she shot back.
"Get someone else."
"There is no one else. Once I'm gone, you are all Olly will have. Otherwise he has to go into care. How many cases do you know of that involved children in care? Not just cases you've worked. Do you really want that for your son?"
Sherlock was silent, every inch of his brain whirring. He resisted pointing out to her that he didn't want a son, never had.
"Fine," he said eventually. "But only when you're gone."
"Don't worry. You won't have to wait long."
XOXOXOX
"What is going on?" John asked, surveying the disaster zone that used to be his room.
"Ah, John, good," Sherlock said, grabbing a cardboard box filled with random objects and shoving at into his friend's arms.
"What's all this?"
"Yours, yours..." Sherlock threw something else into the box. "Yours."
"This isn't mine," John said, picking out a pair of curling tongs.
"Oh. Keep it anyway," Sherlock replied, returning to manically cleaning. John placed the box on the floor, frowning. He hadn't seen Sherlock like this in... Well, ever. Although come to think of it, he hadn't acted all that differently after being drugged by Irene Adler.
"Sherlock, have you been drugged?"
"What? No. Idiot."
"Then what has prompted this spring cleaning?"
"It's February. Which is technically still-"
"It's a saying Sherlock!"
"Oh. I'm getting a new flat mate."
John stared at him.
"Seriously? Who?"
"His name's Oliver."
"What does he do?"
Sherlock paused, staring at him as though he'd gone mad.
"Do? He doesn't do anything."
"Bit like you then," John muttered to himself.
"John, John... John!" Sherlock cried suddenly, as if realising for the first time who he was talking to. Leaping over the piles of stuff littering the floor he grabbed John by the upper arms.
"What?" John asked nervously, leaning back from the consulting detective that was suddenly in his face.
"You have a son!"
"Yes, I do have a son. I've had a son for three years. You were there when he was born. He's called Jack, he was here this morning," John said slowly. Actually, Jack was here now, downstairs with Mrs Hudson, because when Sherlock texted him about an emergency it could be anything from making a phone call to assassins in the living room (and yes, he was speaking from experience).
"Don't be an, well, don't be you John! How do you have a son?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, I'm not sure how much you know already, but first a man and a woman-"
"Not like that!" Sherlock scowled. "What do you do with a son?"
John stared at him, confused. When it became apparent no answer was forthcoming, Sherlock returned to frantic tidying. Keeping one eye on him, John moved out into the hallway, pulling out his phone and calling the one person who could deal with this mess.
"No."
"I haven't even said anything yet!"
"I don't care John, whatever it is, I'm not doing it," Mary said. "I need this time."
"It's an emergency."
"Is it Jack? Cause otherwise I don't care."
"It's Sherlock. I think, and I may have completely gotten the wrong end of the stick, but I think Sherlock's just told me he has a son."
There was silence on the line.
Eventually Mary sighed, that special sigh she reserved for John and Sherlock's adventures.
"I'm on my way," she said.
XOXOXOX
After sending Amy to find Mrs Hudson and Jack, Mary trudged upstairs, still in the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms she'd been wearing to watch films with Amy, half of her toenails painted purple. She saw no point in changing, considering the only people who we're going to see her had also seem her immediately after giving birth twice. Besides, it wasn't as though she'd never been out her pyjamas. Apart from picking Isaac and Sherlock up from a drug den all those years ago, she'd often nipped down to the corner shop in them late at night or early in the morning.
Her husband met her on the first floor landing and instantly received an angry glare, which he took with good grace considering he'd disturbed her relaxing day.
"Where is he?" she asked.
"Still tidying," John replied. "Which in itself is shocking. In all the years I lived here, he never tidied up once."
Mary followed him upstairs. Standing in the doorway of John's old room, she suddenly understood why he'd declared it an emergency. Dear God, she thought. It's the napkins all over again.
"Sherlock?" She called. The detective looked up from his dusting.
"Hello Mary."
"Sherlock can you leave that for a minute please?"
"Why?"
"Just for a little bit so you and me and John can go downstairs and have a chat?"
Frowning Sherlock dumped the cloth into the bucket of soapy water, ripped off the yellow rubber gloves, and followed them downstairs.
Mary sat down opposite Sherlock in what was generally considered John's chair, while John perched beside her on the arm. Sherlock eyed them suspiciously, clearly at a loss as the what this conversation was about.
"Sherlock, why are you cleaning John's old room?" She asked.
"I'm getting new flat mate."
"That's good. What's his name?"
"Oliver."
"And how old is Oliver?"
"Well he was born in... 2012, so he'd be seven now."
"Sherlock, are you related in any way to Oliver?"
"We share alleles," Sherlock replied.
"And what does that mean?" Mary asked.
"It means Sherlock Holmes is a father," John said. "Why did you never mention you had a son?"
"Never came up."
"Never came up... Sherlock!" John exclaimed.
"What?" the detective frowned.
"You have a son!"
"No, I don't. Well, technically."
"Okay, Sherlock, I know you think you're explaining things, but you're really not," Mary said. Sherlock sighed. "Explain. In a way John'll understand," she continued.
"Oi!"
"His mother was at university with me. She wanted a child, but she didn't want a relationship. She asked me, I agreed. We had a deal. I didn't want to be involved, and she didn't want me to be."
"So what's changed?" John asked.
"She's dying."
"Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry," Mary said. He frowned.
"Why are you sorry?"
Both Watsons decided to leave that explanation for another time.
"So Oliver's coming to live with you now?" Mary asked.
"Not yet. Once George dies."
John frowned.
"George? As in the woman who emailed you this morning?"
"Yes, obviously. Do keep up John."
XOXOXOX
Less than a week later, and Sherlock received a call from the hospital to inform him that George had died, and that Oliver was waiting for him at the hospital. John dragged a reluctant Sherlock to the hospital.
"What does he look like?" John asked as they headed to the relatives room, where they'd been told Oliver was waiting.
"I don't know."
John stopped so suddenly that Sherlock shuffled straight into him. The doctor stared incredulously at him.
"What?"
"You've never seen your son?" John asked, hoping he'd misunderstood but with a sinking feeling that he hadn't.
"No. I saw a photo when he was born," Sherlock replied. He glanced at John. "Not good?"
"Very not good."
"Why? It was part of our deal," Sherlock frowned. John couldn't believe him. Sherlock had shown more interest John's children than he'd ever shown in his own son. John couldn't understand it.
When they entered the relatives room, it was instantly obvious to John which one was Sherlock's son. He had the same messy black curls and the same, albeit slightly softened, facial features. Since Sherlock showed no interest in making the first move, John stepped forward and crouched down in front if the boy.
"Are you Oliver?" he asked gently. The boy nodded. "Hi Oliver, I'm John."
"Hi John," Oliver replied quietly. Up close, John could see Oliver's eyes were are darker blue than Sherlock's.
"Do you know who that is?" John asked, pointing to a skulking Sherlock. Oliver nodded.
"That's my dad."
"That's right," John nodded. "I'm his best friend."
His knees were strongly protesting by this point, so John moved to sitting in the seat next to Oliver, kicking Sherlock as he did so.
"Say something!" he mouthed.
"What?" Sherlock mouthed back.
"Anything!"
Sherlock stared at John and Oliver, desperately wishing he was anywhere but here. He hadn't felt this overwhelmed since John had asked him to be his best man. Never had he wished so hard that Mycroft would swoop in, tell him he was incapable and sort everything out. However, there wasn't a brother in sight, only a very lonely seven year old boy.
"Hello Oliver," he said eventually. John didn't think he'd ever heard Sherlock sound so hesitant.
"Hi," Oliver replied, his eyes now fixed on his father.
"Would... Would you like to... come home? With me?"
Oliver turned to John.
"Will you be there too?"
"No, I've got my own house where I stay with my wife Mary and my children. They're called Amy and Jack and I'm sure they'd love to come play with you."
Oliver looked uncertain. John decided to try a new tactic. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "Your dad's a bit of an idiot. I used to live with him to look after him, but now I've got to live with my family and look after them. So do you think you could stay with your dad and look after him to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid?"
Oliver considered John's proposal for a minute before nodding.
"Good boy," John smiled.
Hopping off his chair, Oliver went up to Sherlock and took his hand. John had to bite back a laugh at the look of terror that flashed across Sherlock's face.
"Come on you two, let's go home."
XOXOXOX
John led Oliver upstairs while Sherlock followed behind. He stood in the doorway, watching John help the boy out of his coat, before setting him up in front of the TV in John's old chair. Once Oliver was settled watching cartoons, John returned to the doorway where Sherlock stood.
"I've got to head home, but if you need anything, just call, okay?" John said. Sherlock nodded, never taking his eyes off Oliver. "Right, I'll see you later, yeah?" he continued. He frowned. "Are you actually going to move?"
"Of course," Sherlock replied, stepping into the room and removing his coat.
"See you later. Bye Oliver," John called, heading back downstairs.
XOXOXOX
"Do you think he can cope?" Mary asked anxiously as John returned to the kitchen from giving Jack more carrot sticks.
"With more carrot sticks? I'm pretty sure he can."
"No, stupid!" Mary whacked her husband with the tea towel she was currently using to dry wine glasses. "Sherlock. Do you think he can cope with being a dad?"
John opened his mouth to say that he was sure he would be fine, before remembering that this was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about. Sherlock and fatherhood were two words he had never expected to hear in a sentence together. His only experience of children, other than Jack and Amy, came from Archie. And just because Archie loved looking at pictures of gruesome murders, did not mean that all children did. As Amy's nightmares after the Abbey Grange incident attested to.
"Mrs Hudson's there, they'll be fine," he replied eventually. Mary raised her eyebrows, forcing John to consider further. After all, what time did Mrs Hudson have her evening soother? (Speaking of which, he'd have to make sure they were stored in a place out of reach of a seven year old).
"We'll go over straight after dinner," John decided.
XOXOXOX
Sherlock Holmes was not panicking. He was thirty nine years old, he was a consulting detective, he was a high functioning sociopath and he was not panicking!
Okay.
Maybe panicking a little.
He stood in the doorway to the flat, staring at George's child who was sat in John's chair watching TV. Except he wasn't George's child anymore, he was Sherlock's. Technically he'd always been Sherlock's child, but until now he'd never had to have anything to do with the child. Just as he was on the verge of breaking down (Or he would've been if he was actually panicking. Which he wasn't. At all. Much.), he heard the front door open and a pair of little feet thunder up the stairs, the owner of said feet crashing into Sherlock's legs.
"Sherlock!" Amy Watson cried, squeezing his legs so tightly he almost lost his balance.
"Amy," he replied, giving her head a quick pat as usual. Behind them, Mary and John, holding Jack, came up the stairs. Jack reached out for Sherlock, but considering his terror at his newly acquired fatherhood, the detective shied away.
"Amy, why don't you and daddy and Jack go and say hello to Mrs Hudson?" Mary suggested, seeing the thinly veiled terror in Sherlock's eyes.
"Yeah!" Jack shouted.
"Bye Sherlock!" Amy said.
"Bye Amy."
Once her husband and children had disappeared back downstairs, Mary turned to Sherlock. He had turned back into the flat, and was staring at Oliver again.
"Are you going in, or are you just going to stay here in the door from now on?" she asked.
"What?"
"Have you even been inside since the two of you got back from Barts?"
"Of course. I hung up my coat."
"Hmm. Two steps. Impressive."
Sherlock frowned.
"Sarcasm?"
"You're getting better." Then Mary sidestepped him, and crouched down next to Oliver. "Hi Oliver," she smiled.
"Who are you?" the boy asked.
"You remember John?" Oliver nodded. "He's my husband."
"You're Mary?"
"That's right. What are you watching?"
"Tom and Jerry."
"Cool. Have you had dinner?"
Oliver shook his head. Mary turned to glare at Sherlock.
"You didn't give him dinner?" she hissed.
"Am I supposed to?" he retorted.
"Yes!"
"Oh. Well I could order Chinese."
"Take away every night is not a suitable diet for seven year olds," Mary replied. "Nor is it a suitable diet for consulting detectives for that matter."
"I don't eat it every night," Sherlock argued. "Some nights I don't eat."
"Well children do. And not just at night. They need three meals a day."
Sherlock considered this. It was true that the Watson children seemed to be never-endingly hungry. They also slept a lot. And made a lot of noise. And an awful lot of mess. Which lead him to only one conclusion.
"I can't look after him. I can't be his father," he announced.
"Sherlock, you're already his father. You've always been his father."
"Yes, but his mother took care of him. It was one of the conditions. She made it very clear that she never wanted anything from me, other than the child. Well, I think this is a pretty big thing to ask for. To look after him for the rest of his life."
"It's not as though she had a lot of options, she was dying Sherlock!" Mary watched him. "Oh, go and talk to your son. I'll make him some dinner. And I'm assuming you'd like some too? Since the doorway isn't exactly famed for its excellent cuisine."
XOXOXOX
Sherlock was spared having to make awkward conversation with Oliver while they ate by the return of John and the two miniature Watsons, who were both thrilled at the idea of gaining a new honorary cousin and playmate. He watched the interactions of the three children as he ate, feeling Mary's eyes on him the whole time.
After dinner, Amy, Oliver and Jack were absorbed in a game of pirates – which Sherlock thoroughly approved of – and had decreed John was the evil pirate whose treasure they absolutely must steal. He stood in the kitchen doorway watching, remembering what it had been like to play as a child. Although when he'd imagined himself as a pirate, he had been on his own, and Mycroft never deigned to be the evil pirate king, no matter how much Sherlock begged.
Mary came up to him, nudging his arm gently.
"You'll be fine," she said quietly. He snorted. "You will."
"Mary, I will not be fine. Fine is normal and average. I will be much more than fine."
Mary bit back a smirk.
"Of course you will Sherlock."
Worry suddenly covered his face, and Mary knew it was only because John was currently under a pile of three laughing children that the detective had revealed it.
"What if I'm not?" he asked quietly. "What if I'm only ever fine? Only ever average?"
"Then you've done pretty well," Mary replied, looping her arm around Sherlock's. "None of them come with an instruction manuals you know. Whether they're newborn or eight or even thirty four when you get them, there's no instructions. You just figure it out as you go along."
Sherlock frowned.
"I don't like the sound of that."
"No one does," Mary said patting his arm. "No one does."
XOXOXOX
Mary and John left Sherlock with detailed instructions on a child's bedtime routine before taking a now very sleepy Amy and Jack home, promising to come round in the morning if he needed them. Outwardly he had snorted at the idea of needing them, inside he'd thought it was quite likely. And for once, he'd followed instructions to the letter. He'd told Oliver to change into his pyjammas, watched Oliver brush his teeth then led him back to John's – no, Oliver's – room.
As Oliver climbed into bed, Sherlock glanced around the room, realising how bare it was without John's things. His childhood room had been bright and filled with models and books and science posters.
"I promise we'll make the room better," he said awkwardly.
"'Kay," Oliver replied.
Feeling ridiculous, Sherlock pulled the covers up over George's – no, his – son, just as Mary had instructed him before perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed.
"Do you need anything?" he asked, not meeting Oliver's eyes. The little boy shook his head. "If you have any problems I'll be downstairs. I don't sleep much," Sherlock continued. "Goodnight."
"Night," Oliver whispered.
Sherlock stood, flicking off the main light so the room was only partially lit from the lamp by the bed. He hesitated by the door, remembering something John had said. Turning quickly, he gave Oliver a brief kiss on the top of his head.
"Love you," he said gruffly, shutting the door behind him.