Only Ours:
Greg Lestrade spits out his toothpaste into the sink and drinks from his glass of water. His last day of the weekend had gone nicely. He'd gone to the bar with Sherlock and John and had a few drinks. It was easy going and comfortable, a friendship that would last. With a lazy stretch he starts to shuffle towards bed, only a little drunk because he had work tomorrow. The rain outside was harder than usual. Of course London had storms, but this one was oddly malevolent. Like an omen. Greg thought, chuckling to himself. The covers were soft and tight because of the hospital corners he always made his bed with. The lazy waves of sleep had only just begun rolling over him when there was a knock on the door. Only wind. Greg's sleep and drink induced mind told him. But the knocking persisted with panicked raps. Groggily, Lestrade drags himself from his bed, grumbling incoherently along the lines of god awful hour and who would even be here. When he open the door the wind ushered in so much rain that Lestrade was soaked almost immediately.
"Dammit." He mumbled, looking at his sopping clothes. And as he glanced down, two things came to his attention. One, no one was at the door. Second, whoever had come had left something on the porch. Curious, Lestrade picked up the parcel and nearly dropped it when it squirmed. What the hell? He thought his mind panicking. His mind had already made a logical but irrational solution. God no. He pleaded silently. But when he lifted the edge of the blanket he saw a teeny face that was sleeping soundly. Greg flung his door open again and ran outside.
"Hey! Hey! Anyone!" he screams, "Hello? You can't do this!" he cries desperately. The icy rain had now begun hitting the babies exposed face and it began crying in protest. Once he was back inside Greg leaned against his closed door and slid down into a sitting position. What the hell am I going to do with a BABY? He thought. Alternatives began rushing into his head, adoption being the foremost. He shifted the still crying baby into the other arm, and as he moved he heard the unmistakable crinkle of paper. Unrolling a layer of the blanket, he was surprised to see a thick sheet of official documentation.
It read: Certificate of Birth. Name: Sovereign Eveerie Adler. DOB: January 5th 2012. Place of Birth: St Bartholomew's Hospital. Mother: Irene Adler. Father:
Greg ran a hand through his hair. He knew of Irene Adler from police reports. She caused quite a bit of trouble way back when. But the idea of her dropping her BABY at Greg's door was insanity. Greg flipped the paper over and was surprised to find that someone had written something on the back.
Greg,
First, I owe you an apology. This is unfair and I am sick with even myself. My name is Irene Adler. It's come to my attention that you know who I am. In turn, I've heard much about you as well. I hope you are aware that this isn't what I want. But, I cannot care for my daughter. Her name is Sovereign, but I call her Savvy. She's a god girl, she doesn't even cry at night. I do not have money, a home, or a good job to care for her. I don't have any relatives and no one I can trust. I know that your wife died in a car accident while pregnant with your child. This is a horrible comparison, but I hope Savvy can ease some of that? No. I am very sorry. You are the only man in London who I could think of. I will come back. I promise. I will pay you for every penny, every MIUNTE, you spend with her. I cannot make you keep her. I understand if you need to let her go to a foster home. But please, in any way you can (even if that means giving her away.) Take care of my daughter. I'm begging you Lestrade.
Irene Adler
There was nothing about the letter that Lestrade found even remotely okay. What about the baby's father? How had Irene known about his wife? Why was HE the only man this woman could think of? He wasn't equipped to care for a child. Hell, he could barely take care of himself. He read the letter again. Then once more. This woman was desperate, obviously. A line kept catching his eye over and over. "She doesn't even cry at night." This was a woman out of options, pleading for her child whom she obviously loved. Greg was torn; this woman needed her child to be safe. And what was he even thinking? Torn? Obviously he couldn't take her, could he? He wasn't a dad. He had almost been at one point, but he wasn't. He didn't know how to care for a baby barely a year old. The baby's wails had subsided into gentle coos at the inspector. Greg looked at his wall where the last picture of him and his wife ever taken.
"Leslie, what would you have done?" he whispers quietly to the night. In truth, he knows exactly what Leslie what have done. Greg swallows and is gobsmacked at his own stupidity.
"I um, I guess you can, er, stay." He stutters at the child in his arm. As if she understood him, the little girl gurgles and lets her heavy eyelids slip shut again. Greg smacks his head on the back of the wall.
"What have I even done?" He whispers, and he swears he can hear the night laughing.
