Sherlock Holmes Has A Baby
(I do not own any part of BBC's Sherlock. I just like to imagine)
Summary: Sherlock is left alone with his young daughter for the first time while Molly is at a conference. Can he make it 24 hours on his own? Final part of the "Sherlock Holmes Has A…" series, but can be read as a stand-alone.
P.S. I just wanted to thank everyone who has left such lovely comments – I so appreciate it, and it motivates me to write to the best of my abilities for you.
"Peas or carrots?" Sherlock stood, eyes intensely shifting between two tiny, brightly colored jars. They both looked horrendous, to be honest. His question was met with silence. Well, not complete silence. A sort of slobbery, breathy silence that told him the person in the chair before him was hungry and teething.
He glanced up. The chubby little person was staring back, brown eyes wide and unwavering. She was gnawing enthusiastically on dimpled fingers, drool accumulating everywhere. He couldn't help but smile – she was just so adorable, a mini-combination of Molly and himself. He felt his heart melt when she grinned back, toothless save for two tiny white nubs. She had stolen his heart five months ago when she was first placed in his arms, and she hadn't given it back.
"Lucy, peas or carrots?" he asked again, bending toward her high chair. He held out both jars. She slowly reached out toward the bright orange one, no doubt just wanting to stick it in her mouth. Everything went in her mouth these days.
"Excellent choice, peas are atrocious," he muttered, cracking open the jar and grabbing a tiny plastic spoon. He dragged a chair closer and settled into the task of feeding his daughter. This is pretty easy, he thought, I dunno why Molly made such a big deal about leaving.
Molly had left earlier that morning for a pathology conference, and she wouldn't be back until tomorrow evening. That meant Sherlock would be left alone with Lucy for over 24 hours. And he had never been left alone with her for more than eight hours, when Molly was at work. She had left detailed instructions for him, outlining such things as feeding times, where Lucy's favorite stuffed bear was, and telephone numbers of what seemed like a ridiculous amount of people in case of an emergency. He had scanned the note before tossing it on the kitchen counter.
"Please, Molly," he had rolled his eyes, shifting Lucy in his arms, "I've taken down serial killers and evil masterminds. I'm sure I can handle a tiny drool-machine for a day"
Molly had sighed, kissed Lucy's round little head and Sherlock's plump lips, and headed out the door. Shutting it behind her, Sherlock glanced down at the baby in his arms. She stared up at him, as she often did. Molly had dressed her in little denim leggings, a white onesie, pink socks, and a mini-ponytail at the top of her head. She was perfectly adorable. She smiled her gummy smile, and he flashed her a toothy one. This was going to be a walk in the park.
The more time passed, the more Sherlock was reassessing the ease of his assignment. Lucy had decided that she didn't want to eat the carrots after all. Instead, she had repeatedly grabbed the spoon and proceeded to smear the stuff across her face, in her hair, and down her clothes. She had even managed to fling some into his hair and face. When she started to squirm, he quickly abandoned the carrots and pulled her from her chair. Before he knew it, her sticky little hands had grabbed his shirt, smearing that too. He opened his mouth to protest, and in went her little fingers. With an exasperated sigh, he held her out at arms-length and carried her to her nursery.
He stripped her to her nappy, wiped off any remaining carrot, and (eventually) got her squirming little body into another onesie, sans leggings. They made a stop so he could change his shirt, now orange with pureed carrots. He proceeded to bring her back down into the kitchen to fix her bottle – if she didn't want carrots, maybe she wanted milk. Five minutes later, he sat on the couch cradling his daughter as he fed her. For the moment, they were both content.
Said contentment didn't last long. Exactly fifteen minutes after the last drop was drunk, Lucy decided it was time to put Daddy on his toes again, this time by spitting up all over him. With a grimace, he set her down in her baby seat while he hurried to change his clothing yet again. He was just pulling on an old t-shirt (fatherhood had lowered his fashion standards) when he heard Lucy start whimpering. He ran back into the living room as the real, honest-to-goodness tears began. He carefully unhooked her from her seat and pulled her into his arms.
"Lucy, sweetheart, what's wrong?" he asked, "You were fine a moment ago" Her reply came as a sob. "Are you missing Mummy?" Lucy buried her face in his shoulder, hands gripping his shirt tightly. "It's okay, I miss her too" he told her, patting her back in a steady rhythm. He could feel moisture seeping into the cotton fabric of his shirt, and he wasn't sure if it was tears, drool or snot. For the moment, he was okay not knowing. What he did know was his baby was unhappy, and he needed to get to the bottom of it.
Genuine tears lasted about twenty minutes. Then came the screaming. Little Lucy was wailing like her life depended on it, and poor Sherlock had tried everything. Bouncing, walking, rocking, dancing, funny faces, her favorite song on the violin – nothing calmed her down. After about an hour of screaming (with a few moments of hiccupping silence sprinkled in), Sherlock picked up his phone. He wanted so badly to call Molly, but he just couldn't. He didn't want to look like an idiot father who couldn't take care of his own child, and he certainly didn't want to hear "I told you so". He thought about calling his mother, before remembering she and his father were in France for their anniversary. That left the only other person Sherlock trusted.
John was just settling in to browse the newest medical journal when his phone began to ring. Sherlock. Wait, he thought, Sherlock's calling? He never calls unless…he scrambled to answer, fearing the worst – Sherlock Holmes only called when there was trouble. Other than that, he preferred to text.
"Sherlock?" John answered.
"John!" Sherlock sounded relieved. "John, I need your help" In the background, John heard screaming. Was that the telly? "John, something's wrong with Lucy"
"God, what happened?"
"She won't stop screaming!" Sherlock sounded very impatient, "Can you please come over and help me?"
"Where's Molly?" John asked, setting aside the journal and moving to find his medical bag.
"At a conference up north. Please, just hurry!"
When he arrived at 221B Baker Street (the Holmes' never did move after getting married, and probably never would now), John ran up the stairs to find the door unlocked. Pushing it open, he almost wanted to laugh at what he saw. Sherlock, currently shirtless, was bouncing around singing the Elements Song, holding a wailing Lucy, who had been stripped to just her nappy. Both looked upset and exhausted, and neither heard him walk in.
"Nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germanium," Sherlock sang, making another circuit on the living room floor.
"Sherlock!" John finally spoke, "What's going on?" Sherlock turned to face him, and John could read the stress on his face.
"She won't stop screaming, John," John really expected a biting remark, something sarcastic and caustic and smart-arsy. But there was only weariness in his best friend's voice.
"Everything started out fine," Sherlock continued, "After Molly left, we played for a little while, then I tried to feed her carrots but she wouldn't eat them. Then she vomited on me, and then she started crying, and now she won't stop," Sherlock himself sounded very close to tears, so John strode over and gently pulled the infant from Sherlock's arms.
Just seconds into holding her, he could tell why they were both half-naked. Little Lucy was hot, either from fever or working herself up, he couldn't tell. And she was properly howling, face red, tiny fists balled, body tensed. Sherlock hovered, pacing absent-mindedly, face etched with concern. John decided to treat this case like any other that walked into his office. He sat on the couch with Lucy on his lap. He glanced up at his friend.
"Maybe you should sit down, Sherlock," he suggested. "I'm no pediatrician, but I'll examine her carefully" Sherlock did as he was told, collapsing onto the nearest chair and running his fingers through his curls. He watched as John went through his exam, checking her heart, lungs, reflexes, and more.
By the end of his exam, John was confident that there was nothing seriously wrong with Lucy.
"I think it's just the beginnings of a cold," he said, "She has a fever, but it's nothing some pain relievers and a cool bath can't fix" Sherlock jumped up and ran out of the room, returning quickly, thrusting John a bottle of infant ibuprofen, which John quickly administered to the suffering child. Before Sherlock could protest, John picked up the infant and carried her into the bathroom, where he drew a cool bath.
Sherlock followed his friend into the loo and found him kneeling at the edge of the bath, sleeves rolled up, carefully splashing water around the still-whimpering Lucy. He was too tired to insist that he bathe his own daughter. He just stood in the doorway, watching as his baby slowly relaxed under the tender ministrations of her godfather.
"Well," he sighed, "I proved Molly right"
"Hmm? What do you mean? Hey!" John replied, flinching as Lucy splashed him as she kicked out her chubby little legs.
"Molly didn't think I could take care of Lucy on my own," Sherlock said, explaining the note and her obvious concern as she left.
"Sherlock, every mother behaves that way. It was a lot longer than five months before Mary left me alone with Elizabeth, and I'm a bloody doctor!"
"But look at me, John!" Sherlock groaned, "I can't even comfort my daughter when she's sick!"
John sighed, looking down at Lucy, who had stopped screaming, but was still sniffling and hiccupping. She couldn't see her daddy, but she had her head cocked in the direction of his familiar voice.
"Listen Sherlock," he began quietly, "There will be times when, as a parent or a husband or even just as a friend, you won't be able to comfort the people you love. You will feel overwhelmed or frustrated or scared. You won't be able to fix every problem or make everything all better. But just being there and trying your best is enough. You are a good father, and you are a good husband, and your family loves you, even if you can't always make it all right"
There was silence for a moment as Sherlock absorbed all that John had said. As the genius thought, John scooped up Lucy and wrapped her in a towel to dry her.
"How do you know Lucy loves me?" Sherlock asked quietly. "She's just an infant" John smiled as he expertly secured a fresh nappy around her soft tummy. He turned and held her out for her father. Lucy reached her him, little legs kicking eagerly. When he finally took her, she grabbed tightly to his shirt and rested her head against his shoulder. A little sigh escaped her lips and Sherlock smiled.
"That's how" John said, clapping Sherlock on the back and shooing him out of the loo.
Forty minutes later, John was returning two tea cups and one baby bottle to the kitchen. Lucy had finally calmed down enough to have a bottle (and keep it all down), and Sherlock was finally feeling himself again. John didn't envy Sherlock one bit – being a dad, especially a new dad, was hard. John himself had struggled for the first year or so. But he was proud of how his friend was handling it. And he could see how much Sherlock, the once self-proclaimed sociopath without a heart, loved his wife and daughter.
He reentered the living room to find a very tender sight indeed. Sherlock lay on the couch with Lucy on his chest, her hands still clutching his shirt, his arms securely around her. Both were fast asleep. Not wanting to intrude on the father-daughter bonding moment (and no doubt much needed sleep), John packed up his bag, left a note for Sherlock about how to treat Lucy's cold, and slipped out. He had the sudden desire to text Mary to see when she and Elizabeth would be home from their shopping.
Sherlock heard the door shut, and blearily opened his eyes. All was quiet, except for the quiet snoring of the baby currently snuggled up on him. He lay still, taking in every minute detail. The weight of her little body on his torso, her tiny heart beating against his. The warmth of her in his arms, the fluffy curls that tickled his skin. The unique baby smell that he had grown to love.
Yes, Sherlock Holmes had grown soft over the years – what he once sneered at now gave him the greatest joy. A beautiful wife, a darling child…all things he could never have imagined for himself. He thought he was incapable of loving. He thought he was incapable of being loved. He had never been so happy to be proven wrong.
He lay with his baby girl in his arms, the thought of Molly in his mind, and drifted back to sleep. A smile touched his lips.
THE END