Together or Not at All.
Set during the Hiatus. Sherlock realises he cannot defeat Moritaty's network alone, so he turns to the only person he knows and trusts (only slightly) but it comes with complications. Adlock
A/N It could be seen as a sequel to 'Grief is the Downfall of Sentiment' and was originally planned to be the second chapter. Instead, it's a multi-chapter story documenting the Hiatus and what I wished Sherlock had really been doing…or to put it indelicately who. I'm infamously horrendous at updating, but I'll try my best. I have a lot of the story planned and written so I guess it won't be that horrendous though. I am very insecure about my writing, particularly as I love reading lots of other people's incredible stories that are far superior to my own, but I am so in love with Adlock and writing is my way of recovering from personal issues, so I decided against my initial wishes to publish this here. It may be OOC and it may not be everybody's taste but I tried my hardest.
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me.
He doesn't realise where he's going until he's halfway up the stairwell.
I'm not dead. Let's have dinner - SH
The text comes through at midnight, she hadn't been sleeping, she rarely could these days. Instead, she was curled up in the corner of her sofa nursing a glass of wine and flicking through files. It had been 2 months since she'd returned to New York from London, her heart sealed off, no chance of any reminder of the great detective. It was thus a shock when her phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen to see an unknown number and an accompanying message. He was alive. Rage surged through her veins as their was a knock on her apartment door. With shaky hands she unlocked the latch, hoping to god it wasn't him, and opened the door. A thin man stumbled across the threshold, skin as white as snow, with short blonde hair that curled only slightly; and yet Irene Adler, Queen of disguises saw through it all. One glance at his eyes that met hers confirmed her worst nightmare, Sherlock Holmes was alive.
"Irene-" He started but was cut off by a hand connecting with the left side of his face. It hurt beyond belief, made worse by the fact he realised he deserved it too.
She's in shock and desperately tries to composing herself by turning from him, leaving him to close the door. He takes that she hasn't closed the door in his face as an invitation to cross the threshold, so he does so a little tentatively and closes the door behind him.
Irene moves through her hallway and towards the living room where the drinks cabinet lies. Sherlock isn't quick behind her, he's trying to deduce things about her from her apartment, although he's tired and a tad delirious and he fails to notice the pack of wet wipes and a plush stuffed monkey haphazardly thrown under the mahogany side table. When he arrives in the lavishly furnished living room, she's been here at least 4 months he deduces, Irene is already halfway through a glass of wine. There isn't a second glass and Sherlock senses a feeling of hostility in the air.
"I almost died Irene." He showed says, walking closer and lifting up his shirt slightly to reveal a jagged scar that started at his hip and went halfway up his stomach.
"I don't even want to ask who stitched that up." Was all she responded with, her finger extended to touch the scar and trace it, but she refrained and dropped her hand to her side. "That is an ugly scar."
"My homeless network." Sherlock shrugged.
Irene's eyes went wide and raised an eyebrow. "You let some drug addict stitch you up?"
"I could hardly go to a Hospital could I."
"When was this? You've only been been dead two months."
Sherlock didn't respond but looked her straight in the eye. The connect was immense and all of the memories of Karachi came tumbling back. Irene turned away from him, increasing the distance between them.
"I don't need to know how, although I have my suspicions, what I need to confirm is why."
Sherlock smirked, he would have loved to have heard her suspicions. "Moriaty's dead," was all he responded with.
Irene looked shocked for a moment and took a long gulp of her wine. She lowered herself into an armchair and nodded. "Good." She whispered.
"My reputation's tarnished and Moriaty's network is still active. I need to dismantle it before returning to Britain."
"So you faked your own death." Irene nodded. "Does John know?"
Sherlock shook his head briefly, glancing down at his feet. Irene's eyes widened again in surprise.
"What about darling elder brother Holmes?
"Yes." Sherlock replied. "But he doesn't know I'm here."
"I'm sure he'd be thrilled if he did know."
"I don't need his constant interference."
"So it's not that you're ashamed of me then." She purrs.
"No." He responds quietly.
"So, I presume this isn't a social call Mr Holmes. What is it that you want from me?" She tries to mask the edge to her voice and so laces it with flirtation. He's dangerously close to uncovering a secret she isn't sure she wants to share just yet.
He doesn't respond but scrutinises her from his seat on her sofa. Something is wrong. Her attention is divided.
"You're on edge, why?" Sherlock questioned.
"I'm in shock Sherlock."
"No." He shook his head. "It's more than that, you keep glancing at that door over there." He pointed to a door leading off from her living room.
Irene didn't even try to deny it, instead she merely tightened her grip on her glass- so much so that her knuckles turned white.
"So." Sherlock said standing up. "The question is, what are you hiding there?"
As if on cue, an unmistakable cry of a baby echoed throughout the apartment. Without even glancing at Sherlock, who was standing stock still in the middle of the room, Irene strode over to the door and opened it in one swift motion. A moment later, she returned, clutching a still screaming baby with unmistakable blue eyes and a mass of black hair atop his head. It wasn't a newborn, but it was no more than five or six months old.
"You have a child." Sherlock stated.
Irene smirked and rolled her eyes. "What an obvious observation," she muttered. Her eyes then suddenly darkened. "No. We have a child."
"No." Sherlock shook his head, despite the compelling evidence of the child in front of him.
"Nero." Irene called out. She completely dismissed him and wandered to the kitchen to get their son a bottle. "His name is Nero Hamish."
In his shock from the living room Sherlock smiled, remembering something from a better time at John's suggestion over a year ago.
"I won't be indelicate and ask you if you to hold him." Irene said matter of factly, returning minutes later to find Sherlock still stood in the same position. Nero was no longer crying, instead content with sucking on a bottle in his mother's arms.
"Why?" Sherlock whispered.
"Why what Sherlock?" Irene responded in exasperation. "Why did it happen? Well it certainly wasn't planned. Why didn't I tell you? Yes because you're totally parental material aren't you?" Her voice was malicious as she spat out the words. "I'm dead aren't you forgetting that…And actually-" Her voice softened slightly. "I was planning on seeing you, if only for your brother's help but then-" Chocking slightly she continued. "-then you jumped."
Irene manoeuvred one arm from under Nero and quickly wiped moisture from her eye. She wasn't crying yet and she would make damn sure that she wouldn't in front of him. Sherlock, for once, stayed suitably silent. After a moment of the awkward quietness that cloaked the room and when Nero's blue eyes began to flutter shut, Irene spoke again.
"You look horrendous, have a shower and then take my bed-"
Sherlock's eyes widened at the suggestion.
"Oh for god's sake Sherlock, to sleep. God know's you need it more than I do."
When Sherlock didn't respond, Irene sighed and strode over to Nero's bedroom, closing the door behind her. A moment later, she heard the front door slam shut and only then did she let the tears fully fall. She cried silently as she watched their child's little chest go up and down in his sleep and his fingers wrap around her little finger. She cried for the sentiment that caused her to feel this way, and she cried for the grief she felt upon hearing his demise, and she cried for the relief she felt for knowing he was alive.
Hours later, she entered the bathroom to find water droplets on the tiles and a damp towel thrown haphazardly onto the washbasin. In her tiredness she smiled slightly, he never had been polite, rolling her eyes she shut the door and opened the one to her bedroom next door. There, Sherlock was sleeping sprawled out on his back, much in the same way as Nero was in his cot mere metres away and for the first time in a long time Irene Adler laughed.
She awoke in the morning to Nero's door creaking. Her eyes widened and all sleep suddenly left her. She glanced up immediately from her position on the sofa to find Sherlock leaving the room.
"Are you leaving?" She asked, throwing back the blanket she'd slept under, having not wanted and not been willing to share with him.
"Yes." Sherlock responded simply. He turned to see Irene and wincing slighting; he had planned on leaving without her waking.
"Without so much as a goodbye kiss?" She flirted shamelessly
Sherlock grimaced at her as she sauntered towards him. She let her finger nails extend to his cheek, dragging them across his cheek bones. Sherlock flinched at the touch but didn't move away. They hadn't been this close to each other in a year, not since Karachi.
"You need to shave darling." Irene whispered in his ear.
"I need to go," was all he said in response, he wasn't giving in to her advances.
"You need me."
"No."
"I've known Jim for years, you really should be the one consulting me on a case like this." Irene smiled at her own joke.
"Do not trivialise this."
She sighed and her voice quietened. "I'm not."
"Irene-"
"No Sherlock, admit it, you need me. You wouldn't have come here if you hadn't." She was right. Why was she always right.
"Yes but the child changes everything."
"His name is Nero."
"Well yes, Nero." He stressed the name of the child. "Changes everything. Thus, I have no wish to put an innocent child in danger."
Irene laughed. "And you honestly think he's not already in danger? I've moved four times since Karachi. I've killed six men. He is hardly safe Sherlock. He will never be safe until we end this."
"Not we-"
"To hell with you Sherlock. This isn't some noble plight of yours- it's not just John at stake here." Sherlock flinched at the mention of his flatmate, ex-flatmate. "I have to protect my son too and the only way to do that is if we work together."
"No."
It was Irene's turn to flinch. She stepped back from him as if he'd physically burnt her. With that, Sherlock strode over to the door and slipped through it, slamming the door awaking Nero and leaving Irene to tend to their child.