A Most Reasonable Proposition
A frivolous social event at the Watsons' causes Sherlock to reconsider his life choices. To solve this dilemma, he'll need a certain pathologist's cooperation - now more than ever.
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Set in a slightly altered timeline / universe, this story occurs sometime in mid-to-late Season 3 with two primary differences:
1. Moriarty did not die / pretend to die in the season 2 finale (whatever the case may be, we won't know until Season 4 arrives, will we?). In this universe, he's been imprisoned, though Sherlock is very aware of his potential to escape at any time.
2. Tom is not / was never in Molly's life. His character simply doesn't exist in this timeline.
No guarantee how frequently the updates will come. But I can guarantee it will be satisfying and (hopefully) in character. Review if you like, but above all, enjoy. :)
Chapter 1 – Yellow Balloons
Sherlock emitted a dry, dejected sigh as Mycroft steered across the Watsons' driveway apron. Soon he'd have to disturb the gift he'd managed to balance perfectly on his lap the entire way. Truth be told, he wasn't keen on disturbing any of his limbs right now. He mentally tabulated all the scenarios he'd be less enthusiastic about than this. It was a very, very short list.
He glanced furtively from left to right. At least a dozen cars lined the quiet street, their owners all packed inside the Watson home, jolly and lively and making fools of themselves. Just as he was about to do.
Mycroft pocketed his keys. "The car is in park now, brother. It's considered safe to get out."
"Physically, yes," muttered Sherlock.
Rolling his eyes, the older Holmes was in no mood for this. Had he reserved an entire afternoon just for Sherlock's insufferable moaning? Hardly. Especially since Sherlock had begged him to come to this, this…
"I have never been to a baby shower before, Sherlock, and yet you don't see me pouting in the Watsons' driveway while they patiently await our arrival. Get up already," he huffed, slamming the car door. "You are the gift bearer, after all."
Oh, how acutely aware Sherlock was of that fact. The box weighed close to twenty pounds. If its heft wasn't enough of a reminder, Mycroft's incessant warnings to keep it stable and steady certainly were. Packing it had been as odd an adventure as choosing its contents. Sherlock recalled their shopping excursion the previous weekend:
"What exactly does one get an unborn child?" he asked Mycroft over the phone, perplexed.
Equally clueless, Mycroft stalled. "What gender is it?"
"I don't know. John and Mary haven't elected to divulge that detail."
"Why ever not? Isn't that the status quo these days, throwing ridiculous parties to reveal the child's gender?"
"I wouldn't know… how is it that you have knowledge of such rituals, brother?" asked Sherlock suspiciously.
Mycroft cleared his throat with authority. "Never mind. If a gift is obligatory, then we must choose an item that holds equal appeal for both males and females."
"Hmm…" Sherlock contemplated his options. "A convertible sofa bed?"
"I'm not certain that meets modern safety standards for infants."
"Very well. A junior forensic chemistry kit?"
"I can't quite place my finger on it, but I sense our trajectory may be somewhat off."
"If you haven't any better ideas, then you'd do well to hold your criticism."
Sighing, Mycroft acquiesced. "To the shopping district, then. I shall arrive for you in half an hour."
The sales staff at the science supply shop had been helpful enough, but also inquisitive. During checkout, the clerk asked for whom the items were intended. Upon learning the future recipient was not yet born, she was taken aback. "Please tell me this isn't the only gift you'll be wrapping?" she pleaded.
At her earnest advice, the Holmes brothers crossed the street to an infant & young children's clothing store. Five seconds in that environment surpassed their tolerance levels. They grabbed the first item within reach – a breast pump – and tossed a large bill toward the unsuspecting saleswoman before rushing out.
And so Sherlock's baby shower gift box contained an electric motorized pump, a microscope, and several jars of formaldehyde. In a truly brilliant moment of economic thinking, he surmised that the jars could be reused to store baby food.
Ready or not, the time had come to present the Watsons with this most auspicious – if unique – combination of gifts. He heaved himself out of the passenger seat and followed Mycroft inside, where they were bombarded with a senseless amount of yellow balloons. They were anchored along the entire length of the banister, hung from all corners of the ceiling, and rolled underfoot at the most inopportune times.
Sherlock was on the hunt for a slender kitchen knife to end the yellow tide, when Molly and Mrs. Hudson came upon him.
"Sherlock, there you are!" greeted Molly.
"We were starting to fear you'd been swept up into some great caper this afternoon," Mrs. Hudson teased.
"Yes, well, you know my M.O., always aim for fashionable lateness," he replied, still digging through drawers and cupboards for a serrated edge.
Molly pursed her lips. "I'd say he's kept our hosts waiting long enough, wouldn't you, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Without a doubt. Let's drag him in, shall we?"
Linking their elbows through his, the two women mercilessly overtook Sherlock and led him into the lion's den, where twenty-some faces turned toward him in unison.
"It's about time!" John called out from the far corner of the room. Mycroft, Sherlock noted with envy, had claimed the last inconspicuous spot near the door – leaving Sherlock with nowhere to sit but a lone ottoman in the middle of the crowd.
Everyone envisions Hell as being a red inferno, he thought while sidestepping legs and oversized presents. But they're wrong. It's yellow. Pastel yellow.
As the festivities began and Sherlock's eyes glazed over, he retreated to his mind palace, where things were much saner than daisy-chaining safety pins or guessing poor Mary's girth in centimeters. Someone had asked for his estimate on the latter. Without needing to look at Mary for even half a second, he threw out an answer and predictably won.
When at last the games subsided, and Sherlock's stomach was aching from an overabundance of refined sugar snacks, the mountain of gifts was to be razed. Finally. He need only survive this final ceremony to escape. Hopefully Mycroft, who'd dozed off with his chin tucked into his chest, could be woken when it was time to leave. It shouldn't be too long now, judging by each present's surface area and wrapping complexity.
A slow, cold horror set in as he realized each gift was first carefully opened, delicately handled, displayed from various angles to elicit a round of adoring coos, and then dutifully recorded in a notebook for… what purpose?
Growing increasingly restless, he could no longer stand it. "Why does John insist on writing down every single inconsequential item?" he whispered to Molly.
She stared at Sherlock a moment before realizing this question was perfectly legitimate coming from him. "So that he and Mary can recall which items came from whom, and mail out thank-you cards afterward."
"You're kidding."
"No," she whispered sideways, trying to return her attention to the proceedings.
Aghast that John was unable to memorize a mere 47 gifts on his own, Sherlock crossed his arms and tried – with limited success – to hide his disgust. His features relaxed, however, when he recognized the final present in Mary's lap: the Holmes brothers'.
"My goodness, this is heavy!" exclaimed Mary, who handed it over to John.
"What is it, two gallons of baby shampoo?" John grinned. "There isn't a tag. Who's this from?"
Mycroft released a long, gentle snore just then. Clearly Sherlock would have to answer.
"Yours truly," he nodded at John.
John froze halfway through peeling back the wrapping paper, and his grin faltered. Something this heavy… from Sherlock… oh, no…
Mary swallowed anxiously as she watched her husband remove the last pieces of tape. Everyone leaned forward in breathless, morbid anticipation. John's expression upon lifting the box flaps was exactly what it should be, and Mary's soon matched as well.
"Oh..!" she gasped while laughing awkwardly. "This is... I see, yes. How thoughtful of you, Sherlock."
At first, John's face contorted in absolute confusion. It looked like a tangled mess of flexible tubing connected to two air horn canisters. Then, as Mary tried to graciously hold the item up for display, realization dawned on John – along with all the other guests. Some immature snickering drifted through the crowd.
Mary smirked at Sherlock. "We… don't yet have one of these. Thank you."
"There's more," he responded flatly.
"Of course there is," muttered John, whose cheeks had turned from ashen to beet red in under five seconds. I'm not sure whether it's a blessing or a curse that Sherlock's is the last present, he thought while diving back in for more surprises. Confusion wracked his brain again as he withdrew six small jars of preservative fluid.
"Do I even want to ask, much less know?" he beseeched his friend, whose straight posture hadn't slouched once in over two hours on that ottoman.
Sherlock tapped his finger impatiently on one knee. "Always rushing to conclusions. Try emptying the entire box before causing a commotion, John."
"Wouldn't dream of it. You're plenty capable of that yourself," John shared a knowing look with Mary before seizing the last item. "A junior forensic chemistry set! By God, Sherlock, you're incorrigible!"
The whole room exploded in laughter. Mary turned the package over and read aloud its many features.
"Solve any crime scene with this all-inclusive chemistry set, complete with high-caliber microscope, petri dishes, and silicone graduated cylinders – perfect for little hands! Your chemist-in-training can arrive first on the scene to outline the body with chalk, and then perform labs with their very own centrifuge! Also inside: valuable coupon for a discounted subscription to Morgue Weekly."
People were doubled over, clutching their sides, tears streaming from their eyes as they howled with laughter. Once Molly caught her breath, she slapped Sherlock on the shoulder.
"Thank you Sherlock, I think we all needed that!" she wheezed.
Regarding her with level eyes, he waited stiffly until the uproar abated.
"Are we so regressive a nation that we consider educational gifts humorous?" he sternly replied.
"Sherlock, that's not educational. That's institutional," John countered, earning another round of laughter.
"Besides, there were plenty of educational gifts today. Here's one," Molly offered Sherlock a nearby book. He handled it with open disdain.
"A plush vinyl-bound booklet with five pages of oversized text and poorly illustrated barnyard animals," he assessed. "Its resemblance to an actual book is so remote that it hardly qualifies. Neither does it prepare a child to responsibly handle a volume of hard cover and substantial size, characteristics of most literature worth reading."
There was moaning and rolling of eyes, but thankfully the racket had roused Mycroft from his sleep. The two brothers locked eyes and communicated all they needed to in an instant. Extricating themselves from the swarm of handshakes, hugs, and farewells surrounding the Watsons, the brothers Holmes slipped out the door without anyone noticing.
Back in the sweet, safe confines of Mycroft's vehicle, Sherlock turned the air conditioning on full blast directly at his face. His eyes fluttered closed in utter relief as the car shifted into reverse.
"Never… again…" he panted hoarsely.
Mycroft shrugged. "I found it somewhat less intolerable than expected."
"That's because you slept through half of it!" spat Sherlock, indignant.
"Quite a refreshing nap, I must say."
"There were enough confectionaries served to induce a diabetic coma!"
"Mary seemed in good enough spirits, though tired. John put up a cheerful façade but behind his eyes I saw fear," yawned Mycroft. "Yes, his mind is a cheerful little room painted in yellow daisies, all of them smiling quite severely."
Moaning softly, Sherlock buried his face in long fingers. John… what were you thinking? He could understand John's need to fill the void Sherlock left during his I faked my death stint, but marriage? Really? Must the commitment have gone that far?
John was selfish, that's what he was. Promising himself to someone for life, and then extending that promise to another new, innocent individual… yes, the epitome of selfishness, that John Watson.
Sherlock sighed. This was a no-win situation. He couldn't fault John's actions, yet he couldn't fully respect them either – and he was rather grumpy for having been cornered into this logical loop.
He pinched his eyes shut. "Why, Mycroft? Why does the human race insist on procreating on such inconvenient terms?"
Mycroft frowned. "Inconvenient, in my opinion, would be allowing our species to cease altogether."
"Are you saying–"
"No," Mycroft quickly answered. "No, I am not stating a previously undisclosed desire to regenerate. I am aware, however, that our planet would be in a most perilous state if all others thought and felt as we do."
Opening his eyes, Sherlock regarded his brother suspiciously.
"So, we need the majority of humankind to follow primitive instincts in order to allow those with higher instincts to thrive," he summarized.
"In essence," Mycroft sighed.
"Therein lies the problem. I never considered John to be among the primitive ranks."
Mycroft shrugged, apathetic toward the whole topic. "People have been known to change, especially under the influence of a significant other. I'll admit I didn't expect to see John step into a vintage portrait of the 1950's family either, but I cede to standing corrected."
"And I suppose I should simply do the same?"
"Do whatever you please, brother. Whether you accept reality or resist it matters previous little to me," Mycroft replied. "Yet bear in mind, the man whose family we just spent half a day with is the closest companion you've ever had. Sentiment aside, that earns him the right to not have his lifestyle dismissively labeled as 'primitive.'"
The remainder of their commute unfolded in terse silence.