Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This idea just wouldn't leave me alone... Enjoy!
THE SILENT-HEARTED PRINCE
"Tell me again, Sherlock… Tell me, and I'll go to bed."
And Rosie Watson crosses her pudgy little arms over her chest. Pouts up at her godfather.
With her short blond hair and large blue eyes she looks uncannily like her late mother, and she's old enough- and cunning enough- to take advantage of the fact.
Mary Watson would expect nothing less.
The unfortunate adult she's currently using her superpowers on- one Sherlock Holmes- glowers down at her in a vague approximation of sternness, something which has the usual effect on her. (Namely none). She's been asking to hear the same bedtime story for the last half hour and there's no way he's going to give in- Best she accept that.
He will train her as he once trained John.
From the sofa he hears a small snort and throws the same glower in its direction, his eyes coming to rest on Rosie's other godparent, one Molly Hooper, specialist registrar. "Hey," she says with a smile, "don't look at me: You're the one who fed her cake all day-
I told you this might happen."
Sherlock's glower turns darker, though it too has no discernible effect upon its subject.
It probably says something about the sort of women whose company he frequents.
"Really, Molly," he chides. "We're supposed to be presenting a united front when we act in loco parentis! John will be scandalised!"
"John won't bat an eyelid and you know it." Molly laughs and Rosie giggles in unison, throwing her a conspiratorial smile; She's at that age where everything the young pathologist does is absolutely delightful as far as she's concerned, so of course she takes Molly's side.
Little traitor, Sherlock thinks. I'm supposed to be your favourite.
As he thinks this he pouts, and this makes Rosie giggle more, throwing her arms around his legs and demanding to be picked up so he won't be cross anymore.
"Please, Uncle Sherlock, please!" she says. "I promise I'll be good!"
He lasts about two seconds before he caves, picking her up and holding her close. As soon as she's in his arms he finds himself smiling at her- little fiend!- and tickling her. Bouncing her. Her tiny hands pat his face, smoothing out the frown lines between his eyebrows, and they smush their faces together. He kisses the tip of her nose and she laughs.
Still giggling, he whooshes her through the air, pretending she can fly, and as he does she claps in delight, asking for, "More! More!"- and then, "higher, Sherlock. higher!"
With a laugh, he obliges; From the corner of his eye he sees Molly smile and pretends he doesn't.
Her face has pinked and her eyes are sparkling.
He pretends he doesn't see that either, however much it smarts.
After all, he's been good where Molly's concerned. Very good. Ever since the Sherrinford Incident and its fallout, he's made a point of being a good friend to her. Of not waylaying her with his romantic, pining nonsense. Of helping her get over him and get on with her life.
He's not going to jeopardise that by being caught making goo-goo eyes (as John insists on calling it), not when he's managed to go the whole day without stepping in it-
"Uncle Sherlock," Rosie's voice intrudes, "is something wrong?"
Immediately his attention snaps back to the child. "No, darling," he says, frowning. "Whyever would you think that?"
Again she presses her little fingers to the lines between his brows. She's looking at him rather closely. "You look cross," she says haltingly. "You look cross when you look at Aunty Molly…"
Her lip begins to wobble, upset moving into her expression.
"Are you cross with Aunty Molly?" she asks, horrified.
Her eyes are wide as saucers.
Sherlock fights the urge to roll his eyes. It is not, apparently, an appropriate response to upset children. "Of course I'm not upset with Molly," he says bracingly instead. "Don't be silly."
A sly glint moves into the child's eye and he realises, just a moment too late, that he's been had. "Well, if you're not cross with her then you won't mind her hearing my story." She looks over his shoulder at Molly. "It's the best story ever, Aunty Molly, and Uncle Sherlock tells it the best ever- Wait until you hear."
Molly's eyes are dancing as she looks at him. "Intro like that," she says, "and I can't really argue, now can I?"
Sherlock would beg to differ- in fact, he really rather not have Molly here this story- but he realises, too late, the cunning efficiency of Rosie's plan. If he refuses to tell her the story, she'll claim that it must mean he's mad at her Aunt Molly, and then she'll be upset. She'll cry and be tedious and female and then John will talk his ear off when he gets home from his conference in Torquay and he'll have to deal with feelings and things for weeks.
It will, of course, be awful.
He looks down at his goddaughter- who is now smiling angelically up at him- and he sighs. Nods. Knowing who her mother was, he really should have expected nothing less. "Very well," he says. "Get into your pajamas and I'll tell you the bloody story."
"Yes!" Rosie says, wriggling out of his grasp and taking Molly's hand in hers. Pulling her into her bedroom. "You can help me get ready, Aunty Molly," she says. "And then you can hear the best story ever!"
Molly throws him a vaguely amused look and then she's being pulled up the stairs, leaving Sherlock raking a hand through his hair in vexation. Shaking his head.
"In my pajamas!" he hears Rosie bellow from upstairs, after a moment. "So is Aunty Molly!"
With another sigh he squares his shoulders and rolls up his shirt sleeves, and then heads towards the door.
He settles her into bed, tucks her stuffed penguin, Mycroft, into the blankets beside her.
Rosie grins up at him, delighted with her success in securing his storytelling services, and despite himself he smiles.
"Do you remember how it starts?" he asks gently, stroking her hair off her forehead.
She nods. "Oh yes." She looks over at Molly, perched at the end of her bed while Sherlock sits beside her. Her eyes are already turning slightly sleepy; her fingers dig into Mycroft's plush side. "Once upon a time," she intones, "long, long ago, there was a prince..."
"What sort of prince?" Sherlock always tries to make sure Rosie's paying attention.
"An awful sort of prince," the little girl states without having to be prompted. Again she grins at Molly. "He was an awful prince, cold-hearted and arrogant and vain-"
"Overly fond of himself and unwilling to care about others." Sherlock takes up the tale.
"This prince had everything a person could want," he continues. "He had wealth. Position. Family and influence and fame. He was important and had lots of things to do and lots of adventures to be getting on with. Why sometimes, he even got to be a pirate! Or a detective!
And everyone was so very impressed with how clever he was that everyone knew his name."
"So what was the problem?"
This question comes from Molly, and it makes Rosie smile. Sherlock too.
If his heart twinges a little, well, he supposes can live with that.
"The problem was that there was a mystery the prince couldn't solve, no matter how clever he was," he says.
"The problem was that the prince's heart didn't beat: it didn't give a single, mediocre thud."
Molly blinks. "But why?" She looks at Rosie in confusion. "Had he been cursed by an evil fairy, or something? Did someone go and steal his heart?"
The little girl shakes her head vociferously, makes to speak; Sherlock shoots her a look and she shakes her head. Mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key.
She insisted he tell the story, after all. He should get to do it.
Besides, judging how close this story is to his heart, he doesn't trust his reactions if the little one takes over.
"Nobody knew why the Prince's heart didn't beat," he continues quietly. When he looks at Molly, her expression is grave. "His mother and father, and his brother, the Archduke, none of them could fathom a reason for it. He had a heart, all squishy and bloody in his chest."
Rosie lets out a squeal at the words.
"He appeared to be alive: he went about his business without any problems, had his adventures without a care."
Rosie lets out a slightly envious sigh.
"But if one were to put one's head to his chest, one would have heard nothing: His chest was absolutely silent-"
Rosie lets out a gasp but Molly's voice sounds over her.
"The poor man," she says. "That sounds awful."
Sherlock blinks at her, surprised at her reaction. "You think so?"
"Of course I think so, Sherlock," she says quietly. "Not having a beating heart- That must be terrible. Who'd want to live like that?"
The detective stares at her, surprised by the vociferousness of her answer, and for the first time in the evening, she looks a little uncomfortable.
She can't seem to stop staring at her hands as they pick, pick, pick at Rosie's duvet.
"So what happened to him?" she asks eventually, her voice almost soundless. The words are so quiet that Rosie clambers out of her bed and into the pathologist's lap to give her a soothing hug.
Molly, being Molly, cradles her to her chest.
"One day," Sherlock continues, trying to ignore how lovely that sight is, "when he was out hunting in the wildwood, the prince met a healer.
She was in the forest, looking for people to help and she came across the prince.
As soon as he saw her, something happened: something unexpected. He felt this… thing in his chest. Like a fluttering of wings, or the banging of drums but softer." He looks at Rosie and she nods, taps her little hands to her chest in time with him as it their custom.
"Thump-THUMP," they say together, "Thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP…"
"Can you guess what it was, Aunty Molly?" Rosie calls. "Can you guess what the sounds were?"
Molly smiles. Joins in, tapping her own palms against her chest. Following along with Sherlock and her goddaughter as they chant out what's clearly a heartbeat over and over again.
"His heart," she says softly. "The Prince's heart had started beating, hadn't it? But why?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Nobody knew," he says, letting his hands fall to his sides. Rosie follows suit. Cuddles back into Molly.
"Nobody could ascertain what was so special about that healer he met in the wildwood, that she made his heart start beating when princesses and duchesses and sundry other dazzling ladies had failed to get even a tap out of him.
But there you have it: Sometimes love is mysterious."
And he shrugs. Tries to effect an unbothered demeanour.
"Sometimes it is." Molly smiles. Sighs. There's something a little… melancholy in her eyes now though.
It hurts Sherlock's heart to see it.
"So did the Prince marry the healer?" she asks after a moment. "Did he sweep her into his arms and take her away to live happily ever after, eh?"
For a split second Sherlock is tempted to tell her yes, but changing the outcome of the story will mean hell to pay from Rosie so he acquiesces.
He just hopes she doesn't read too much into it- She is, after all, so much more observant than most people realise.
"No," he says eventually. "The healer was good, and gentle, and clever and kind. She had suitors from all over the kingdom vying for her hand because… Well, because of course she did. She was the sort of woman it was easy to love. And though the Prince fell in love with her, he knew that she would never love him, not knowing the sort of man he was…"
Molly looks at him. "Then what is the point?"
Her voice is sharper than he thinks she realises; When she looks at him now, there's something in her eyes he doesn't understand.
He thinks she might be trying to tell him something, but he doesn't know what.
Instead he looks at her narrowly. Takes her hand. "The point, Molly Hooper, is that even if the healer never loved him, he didn't begrudge her his heart," he says quietly. "The point is that even though the Prince wasn't loved in return, he still wouldn't have changed his love for the healer for anything- Or anyone.
Yes, the loss of her pained him. And yes, knowing he didn't deserve her made him sad. But he was the better for having met her. His heart was the better, for its having beaten.
The thing she taught him is that love is its own reward, even when it hurts you…"
And he trails away. Looks over at his goddaughter. Emotion must have leaked into his voice because without any prompting, Rosie crawls out of Molly's lap and into his own.
She curls her little arms around him and tells him she's sorry the story made him sad.
With a small smile he kisses her cheek and tells her he's fine, that it did nothing of the sort. He picks her up and puts her back into bed. Places Mycroft the Penguin back beside her before tucking her in. Promising her another story tomorrow. A happier one, he promises. A better one.
It will possibly involve pirates.
When she's settled down he stands and waits until Molly goes out, then turns and looks at Rosie. He smiles at her as he turns out the light; The room falls into darkness, only the warm glow of her nightlight showing,
"I wish the healer loved the prince, Sherlock," Rosie whispers.
"I wish she loved him too," he says softly. "But sometimes… Sometimes it is what it is."
"As long as you keep telling the story," Rosie whispers. "I think there might be hope."
With that he closes the door. Leans back against it. His heart… His heart feels a little unwieldy.
After all, it hasn't been beating all that long, now has it? He muses.
So perhaps it can be forgiven its uneven tick.
When he gets back to the sitting room, he expects to find Molly cleaning up, or possibly getting ready to leave.
She rarely stays overnight any more, and he happens to know she has an early shift the next day.
But when he comes down he finds her waiting for him, a glass of wine in her hand. She's filled one for him too. Set him out a plate of take away which is, judging by the steam rising from it, just heated up. She's curled up on the sofa, feet tucked under her and again she has that look on her face from upstairs, that one he can't quite recognise.
Suddenly the silence feels awfully loud.
"Do you want a cab?" Sherlock blurts, just to have something- anything- to say. "I can call- Thank you for the food, but I can call-"
"Sherlock." Molly's voice is low. Gentle. Lovely. "Sherlock… Who created the story you just told Rosie?"
Though she's asked the question, he suspects she already knows the answer. He therefore doesn't speak, merely holds her gaze.
The silence stretches out some more, but it gets no more comfortable.
He stares at Molly and she stares at him and the living room seems as wide as the ocean floor.
"So what happens, in the end?" she asks eventually. "What happens to the healer?"
Sherlock shrugs. "That's easy," he says. "She finds someone to love her. Someone to make her happy. She gets a happy ever after, because that's what she deserves."
You deserve to be happy, Molly Hooper, he thinks, but he doesn't say it aloud.
"And what if she doesn't want someone else?" she asks quietly. "What if she doesn't want a happy ever after?" She stands, comes into his space. Stares up at him. Her eyes are beautiful and dark. Her pulse is beating at her throat.
"What if it she knows what sort of man the prince is and she doesn't care?" she breathes. "What if she wants-"
"It doesn't matter." He says the words quietly. Firmly. He grips the tops of her arms as he does. "She deserves someone good, and as her friend he can't allow her-"
The kiss comes from nowhere; it's gentle as a sigh. Sweet as morning.
It rattles something loose in Sherlock, something he's afraid won't pop back into place and the frightening thing is, he doesn't care.
"There's no "allowed," in this, Sherlock," she says quietly, when she pulls back. Her eyes are gleaming. "It's not your decision to make, what someone else does, or who someone else loves." She shakes her head.
"Love means respect, and respect means letting the person you love choose- Even if they choose badly. Even if they choose yo-"
"But what if he hurts her?" he asks quietly. He feels a spark of something at her words- He's not sure if it's dread or hope. "What if he makes a complete hames of things and mucks it up?"
Molly steps away from him. Takes a sip of her wine. Without a word she steps out of her shoes and walks towards the door which leads to his room.
She stops at the threshold and looks at him. Her gaze is honest. Kind.
Challenging.
"If he's worried about mucking things up then maybe he just shouldn't muck things up, have you ever thought of that, Mr. Holmes?" she asks tartly.
And with that she opens the door and slips inside Sherlock's bedroom.
He wonders, somewhat disjointedly, if she intends to sleep in his bed.
For a few moments he sits before the fire and sips his wine. Picks at his takeaway.
He can't stop picturing Molly with Rosie in her arms.
Gathering his courage, he stands. Follows in his pathologist's footsteps and makes his way to his bedroom.
There's no night light in his room, but he finds Molly waiting for him.
He slips into bed beside her and as he does, he vows that the next time he tells Rosie the story of the silent-hearted prince, it will have a very different ending
He suspects his goddaughter will approve.