The phone rang.
"John-," Sherlock started, but he hardly needed to open his mouth.
"Don't worry, it's quite alright, I've got it," John quipped, rolling his eyes as he stood. He picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hi—um, hello….who is this?"
"John Watson…Dr. John Watson, and, uh, yourself?"
"Um, Mary—I must've got the wrong number then, I'm sorry-."
"Who are you looking for? I've, uh, got a flatmate."
"Oh, um…do you know the name Sherlock Holmes? I mean, of course you've probably got the name from the papers, but-."
"No, no, yes, he's here. Would you like me to get him for you-?" John looked at Sherlock and watched his eyebrow twitch up at the mention of his name.
"No! No, no, sorry, that's fine. I just—do you think I might be able to stop by, later, tonight, or maybe tomorrow?"
"Well yeah, tonight might be better…what do you need?"
"I…just wanted to see him, that's all. So, soon, is that alright then?"
"Yeah, sure, that's fine," John replied, a little perplexed. "See you soon then."
"Alright. Thank you! Goodbye." The line clicked.
"Who was that?" Sherlock was absorbed in a book again.
"A woman—girl, by the sounds of it. Named Mary? Said she wanted to see you?"
Sherlock's dangling hand tensed for a moment, hardly noticeably, and then went limp again. "Unexpected. I suppose I don't know her?"
John decided against trying to grill Sherlock about his slight reaction and nodded. "I suppose you don't."
"Fine then. Don't let her bore me if she comes."
Two hours later there came a timid knock on the door.
"Come in-!" Sherlock called, not looking up from his work on the kitchen table, while John desperately cut him off, calling, "No, I've got it, don't worry-."
He opened the door and looked ever so slightly down on a girl, maybe around twenty, standing before him. She had black hair back in a ponytail that looked slightly disarrayed. He took in the rest of her. Red jumper, nicely fitting though cheap looking jeans, slippers—moccasins—on her feet. She was clutching a purse at her side for dear life and was trying a smile that seemed, to John, painfully close to the timid one Molly always put on around Sherlock. She stuck a hand out.
"Mary-," she managed, as John composed himself and took her hand, smiling back. "Mary Dawson. And-?"
"John, John Watson. Please, please, come inside."
With tight shoulders, the girl stepped in the flat, while John shut the door over her head. He looked at her as she surveyed the room apprehensively.
"Please, take a seat if you like—or if you'd rather not-."
"Oh, I'm fine, thank you though." She smiled weakly again.
"Right." John tried to smile warmly again, hoping to make up for the lack of hospitality Sherlock was hopelessly bound to display in the near future. "Would you like some tea?"
"That, that would be great. Don't trouble yourself, though, it's just a short-."
"No, it's no trouble at all." John waved her off. "So, you wanted to see Sherlock, then?"
"Is that alright? Is he busy? If so, I can just stop by later-."
Both John and Sherlock replied "No, let me just get him from the kitchen-," and "Terribly so," respectively, at the same time, caused both Mary and John to blush.
"Don't mind him," John covered. "Let me get him, I'll be back in a moment. Again-," he gestured towards the seats and couch, though the girl made no move to sit herself down. He walked briskly into the kitchen.
"What was the idea of that?" he whispered harshly, setting a kettle on the stove. "She's here to see you. So go see her."
"First of all, not only did I not agree to this visit, I have no intention of wasting time in the middle of an experiment on a girl that I don't even know, that no doubt has nothing interesting to discuss, and no less that-."
"Sherlock! Please, for goodness' sake, just go out and have a heart once in your sorry life. She's out there looking half scared to death!"
With a sigh and a furious glance towards his friend, Sherlock stood up, pointedly straightened his suit jacket, and stepped out into the living room, pulling a somewhat cordial look at the girl standing in the living room. When he entered, she seemed suddenly intimidated—expectedly—and as though she wanted desperately to look to the floor for comfort but couldn't leave the eyes of the new subject of her attention.
"Who—who are you?" Even from the kitchen, John could sense the strain in Sherlock's voice as he tried, bless his soul, not to scare the girl half to death with his regular forcefulness. He leaned back on the fridge and watched the kettle heat, listening to the other room.
"Mary..uh, Dawson?"
"Dawson?" John heard Sherlock choke a bit on the word.
"Uh yes…" Pause. "An—Ann Dawson, she was my mother?" She ended again in a tone that betrayed her doubt in herself.
No word was uttered for minutes in the other room. John stayed in the kitchen until the kettle whistled, then removed it and tentatively stepped into the room.
Sherlock and Mary were standing staring at each other, Sherlock stone and Mary shifting on her feet, her eyes darting everywhere, unsure of whether to look at the floor or the man in front of her. When John entered, she gratefully locked her eyes on him.
"Everything alright, then?" John croaked. It was silent.
"Oh." Sherlock barely opened his mouth to emit the syllable, and John looked at him.
"Sherlock?"
"She….she."
Mary looked down and John's eyebrows furrowed. "What about her, Sherlock?"
"She's…my…daughter."
"Oh."