Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
The first thing that should be noted was that it was an accident. He remembered that night after rescuing Irene from the terrorist cell in Karachi. He thought that he would never see her again and that produced unfamiliar feelings inside of him. It was a mere act of misjudgement. Something that happened in the heat of the moment when his body betrayed him and he succumbed to his carnal desires. He closed his eyes and the memories of her sweet curves, her lips on his, the soft caress of her fingertips on his skin flooded back to him. It only happened once. But then again, it only needed one time.
He never heard from her again after that. He never tried tracking her down. Somehow, it felt rightful that they were both left to lead their separate lives. He didn't want to sully her memory by pursuing a relationship with her. To him, she would always remain as 'the Woman'.
Then, two years later, he heard the sounds of footsteps walking up the stairs leading to his flat. It was nothing like the heavy, weary footsteps belonging to John. Nor could it be likened to Mrs Hudson's gentle, delicate efforts not to disturb Sherlock from his work. It was more like the elegant clicking of heels against the wooden floorboards. He caught a whiff of that familiar perfume and turned away from his laptop to see a woman standing under the threshold.
She gave him that familiar lipsticked smile and extended her hand to wave at him. Her hair was pushed back into a bun and she was wearing a large, fur coat. In her hand, she was carrying a cradle, where a bundle was lying underneath a white blanket.
"You shouldn't be here," Sherlock said. "Mycroft's cameras are everywhere, he'll scout you out in seconds and you'll be thrown into prison within minutes. I thought I told you to keep a low profile."
"Nice to meet you, too," Irene said, walking up to him and touching his cheek with one finger. "Besides, I figured out a way to escape from Big Brother's cameras. I'm surprised you haven't found the solution yet, it's really quite simple."
Sherlock scowled. He hated being outsmarted, especially by someone as infuriating as The Woman.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, looking up at her, then his eyes cast down on the sleeping child. "...and might I ask why you are holding a baby?"
"I'm married now," she said, displaying her perfectly manicured hand in front of his face, as though she was trying to provoke jealous reactions from him.
"I figured," he replied, curtly.
"Bernard Ingleby. Of course, you've probably never heard of him. His family owned a mining company up North, and since he's an only child, he inherited the whole fortune. He's old and rich. And incredibly lonely. His whole family deserted him years ago, he has no-one else and he only has three months to live," she noted. "I think I'm doing him a favour by ensuring that he doesn't die alone."
"Okay," Sherlock said.
"We're going on a round-the-world trip. When he's gone, I'll have at least two million pounds in the bank. Before you cast your judgements, I'm not doing this for me. I need to think of my daughter now," she said, smiling at the sleeping figure. Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "Our daughter."
Sherlock felt a lump rise in his throat when Irene said the word 'our'. There was no doubt that the baby was his. It was already beginning to develop his angular cheekbones, and the tuft of black hair on her head only served to confirm his deepest fears. The great Sherlock Holmes had managed to produce offspring. The poor child had no idea what it had gotten itself into.
"You want me to look after it for three months while you wait for your husband to kick the bucket?" Sherlock asked, sceptically.
"Honestly, she's not much trouble. If she starts crying, just try singing to her," Irene paused, observing the look on Sherlock's face. "On second thoughts, don't. Maybe try playing something on your violin. She got an ear for classical music. Try some Bach or Debussy, she loves that."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow again. Irene noticed the mortified expression on his face and chuckled.
"Everything you need is in this bag. Don't you dare try to dress her in cheap supermarket-bought clothing," she said. "With regards to food, she can manage most solids now and please don't feed her ice cream every day, even if she starts crying. She's very good at the whole emotional blackmail thing, so try not to fall into that trap."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock mumbled under his breath, still trying to process the information.
Irene dumped a bag in front of him, forcing him back into reality. How was he going to explain this sudden arrival to everyone? A few minutes ago, he wasn't even aware of the existence of this child. How was he going to continue solving his cases when he had to lug a one year old child around with him everywhere?
Irene seemed to be following his train of thought and sat herself on his knee. Her eyes travelled from his face down to his body, and she kissed his cheek.
"I've missed this," she uttered into his ear. "You, me, the flirting, the intimacy."
Her finger trailed down his chest, and he caught another glimpse of that glimmering ring on her hand. She brought her lips in front of him - teasing, but not quite touching. She could see his chest rise and fall and took delight in the reaction that she could gain from a single touch. He felt her hot breath, and for a moment, he was quite satisfied to stay seated in this position for a few minutes. Then, the baby let out a loud wail and she sighed, climbing off him to tend to the child.
"I should leave now," she said, picking the baby up and rubbing its back. She cooed at it, and Sherlock noticed a different side to her. Something soft, protective and calm. So different to the dominatrix he met all those months ago.
"Right. I suppose I should congratulate you on your marriage," Sherlock sniffed.
"Don't bother. It was a rather low-key event in a registration office. Still, at least I'll be a millionairess in three months," she said, passing him the baby. He took it gingerly. "Say hello to John for me."
"Wait.." Sherlock said, when she turned her back to him. The baby had stopped crying and blinked up at this strange man. "You can't seriously be leaving me with a baby. I don't know the first thing to do. Have you met me?"
"Have you met me?" Irene asked. "I was hardly the maternal type, but you'll figure it out. Trust me."
She turned to leave again.
"Wait..." Sherlock repeated, furrowing his eyebrow. "You haven't even given me its name."
"Her name is Olivia," Irene smiled, turning to leave.
"Olivia," Sherlock said.
He cast his eyes over to the doorway, where he expected Irene to be standing, but it seemed that she had made a stealthy exit. The front door slammed shut and Sherlock Holmes was left alone in 221B Baker Street with a baby.
A/N: Please rate and review, thanks for reading! :)