THE DUBLIN DISASTER.
{On the 1st day of Advent, a crazy fangirl gave to me
A very weird and cracky
Sheriiiiiiartyyyyy...
Hi, it's Maia! (Of course. Martha barely ever writes :'[ ) I am trying out an advent calendar oneshot thingy, I haven't done this before, so it could be terrible.
Basically, I'm going to write a oneshot every day until Dec 24th about a pairing I like (check out the list on the profile) and if you want to suggest one, review! This should be very silly and lots of fun. Well, at least for me. Sorry if I'm inflicting my horrible creations upon you...
I just realised I'm effectively talking to myself 'cause I'm a sad loner... *sob* Oh, well.}
The phone rings. At first, he ignored it. Staring down through the microscope at the bubbling green froth on the slide, he narrowed his eyes. The persistent pealing continues. RRRRRING. "John..." The great detective called for his blogger. He carried on monitoring the movement of the various bacteria surrounding the vegetation, making careful mental notes. Interesting. The bacteria weren't after the nutritional value of the plant at all; they were seeking warmth from the cell sap... RING RING. The aggravating clamour for his attention still burst from the device on the table beside him. He was busy! It could wait. It if was Mycroft again, then he'd... Sherlock retreated from this train of thought. He was supposed to be working! "John!" Nothing from his flatmate. Strangely enough, what he had first mistaken for fungi seemed to be amoebae, floating around the slide and knocking his experiment off balance. RING RING. Damn it, some people just never gave up! Sighing, Sherlock rubbed his aching eyes, pushing the microscope away. He reached over and grasped the device, not bothering to read the call ID. "Who is this?" There was a weird strangled half laughing - half crying from the other end. "HOW DAMN LONG does it take you to answer your FRICKING phone! Sherley, you won't believe this." Moriarty. He sounded... Distraught, almost. "Well?" Sherlock glanced at the screen. Ten past three in the morning. Ah. That'd be why John wasn't around. "Well, I had a client in Dublin a couple of months ago, and when I got there he - he..." Sherlock was paying attention now. "What did he do to you?!" Moriarty let out a very forced choked laugh. "He... He was..." Sherlock grabbed the phone, knuckles turning white. "What?" He replied urgently. "He was a LEPRECHAUN!" Sherlock burst out laughing. "Shut up!" The consulting criminal roared. "It isn't amusing at all. The fecking slimeball got offended when I laughed at it, and now... now..." Sherlock stopped laughing as he heard the tremor of - tears? Impossible - emotion in his archenemy's voice. "What's happened?" He tried to keep his voice calm and even. Was Jim drunk or high? He didn't sound either. "Sherley... Promise you won't laugh?" Sherlock sighed. That would probably be quite difficult. "Yes." Jim squeaked in outrage. "NO! YOU'VE GOT TO SAY IT! Oh, sorry darling. I'm a bit, um, off, today." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in alarm. Jim's notorious mood swings weren't usually this bad... "I promise..." Sherlock replied cautiously. Suddenly anguished again, Jim sobbed, "Sherlock... I'M PREGNANT!"
There was a horrible pause, filled with the noise of Jim's choked sobs and Sherlock's doubt and slight terror. What if it were true..? "Impossible." He remarked bluntly. "HOW DARE YOU - YOU FECKING SOCIOPATH, YOU UNFEELING DRIED UP SHELL OF A PERSON!" Oh dear. Apparently, Jim's many mood swings had multiplied enormously thanks to his "pregnancy". Sherlock was almost starting to believe the crazy story... "AND WORST OF ALL, IT'S YOURS!" Sherlock paled considerably. He was clutching the device so hard he was surprised it hadn't broken. "What." It wasn't a question. Jim was back to his normal self.
"Yup! I'm here preggers with Baby... Um, haven't decided, Holmes-Moriarty! It's so exciting! Ooh, I hope s/he looks like their Daddy!" He giggled at his own joke. Sherlock buried his face in his hands. "Where are you?" He groaned. "Obviously not in the office. There's no way you'd make a call like this so publicly. Perhaps a car? I can't hear an engine or traffic though and the acoustics are all wrong, so more likely to be one of your various apartments. A bedroom, maybe? Definitely not a kitchen or bathroom." Jim made a giggly sound of appreciation. "Ooh, my Sherley, you clever boy. You were right, it is only a flat, so I suppooooose you can come over..." Sherlock sighed. "You want me to come over?" "OF COURSE I BLOODY WANT YOU TO COME OVER! THAT'S WHY I ASKED, YOU MORON!" Sherlock sucked in his breath. "I meant please. Sorry, Sherleylocks." The consulting detective rubbed his exhausted eyes. "Alright, but how do I know this isn't a trap?" Jim burst into tears. Sherlock put his coat on and swung his scarf around his neck faster than he'd assumed possible. He grabbed the phone and dashed out of the door. "James?" He could hear the man wailing quietly on the other end. "Tell me where to go. I'm coming." Moriarty brightened up considerably, rattling off an address with a light chuckle. Sherlock was just glad he wasn't crying. That in itself was terrifying, let alone the fact that the person sobbing their eyes out was the most dangerous man in London, possibly the world. He hailed a taxi; luckily,the address wasn't too far from Baker Street, just a few blocks. After getting in, he put the phone to his ear to make sure Moriarty was still there. In the Irish lilt so adorable Sherlock thought it should be illegal, Moriarty was singing quietly, apparently to his "pregnant" belly.
"Rest tired eyes a while,
Sweet is thy baby's smile,
Angels are guarding
And they watch o'er thee.
Sleep, sleep, grah mo chree
Here on your daddy's knee,
Angels are guarding
And they watch o'er thee,
The birdeens sing a fluting song
They sing to thee the whole day long, Wee fairies dance o'er hill and the dale, For very love of thee."
Sherlock felt an unusual fluttering from within his chest cavity. He felt like he had just intruded upon a very personal, very private moment. Apparently unflustered, Moriarty chuckled quietly to himself. "Sherley, my darling, what are we calling our child?" Sherlock was unsure as how to reply. "Well, how far along are you?" He eventually managed. "Three months, Sherley, three fricking months of needing to pee constantly, sore nipples and morning sickness! And I have to suffer another six! Names, Sherlock, quick!" Sherlock watched the streets blur past. "Er..." "AND NOT JOHN!" Moriarty cut in with a shriek. "No son of mine will be called such a BORING name." "Well, how about Mycroft?" Pause. Sherlock could feel the glare burning into him. "That was a joke!" He said hurriedly. "It had better have been..." Jim growled. Sherlock got the sudden image of him wrapping his arms around his stomach protectively, glaring at the supposed threat. Oddly enough, the image was rather heartwarming. "Well, for a girl, um... Aeryn, meaning Ireland... And a boy... Finn?" Moriarty squealed in delight, clapping his hands together. "You are so perfect, baby, yes you are!" "Oh. Well, thank you, James." "Not you, you doofus. Baby!" The criminal snarled. "Oh. Oh! Okay." The taxi pulled up outside an ordinary, slightly shabby looking building. Sherlock paid the driver and exited, ringing the doorbell. "I'm just outside." He informed the criminal genius. "Yes, darling, I knooooow. I have to walk down these stairs to get to you!" Sherlock shrugged, hanging up. A few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a very unexpected sight. Sherlock had presumed drugs or alcohol to be the cause, but when the criminal threw his arms about his shoulder in relief, he knew that somehow he was telling the truth.
Sherlock could feel the press of Jim's swollen stomach against this own. When he was released, Sherlock just looked at his nemesis, the father of his child. Who wouldn't - his normally perfect hair flopped forwards messily, he was dressed in casual sleep wear, and his torso was completely distorted by the bulge of his small, but very visible, baby bump. "You think I'm ugly now. You don't like me anymore, because of this..." Jim said in a small voice. He poked his belly angrily, though softly enough to show that he didn't mean it. "No, no." Sherlock took the younger man into his arms. "You're just as lovely as always." Jim beamed. "Thank you, Sherlock." His tone was serious and slightly embarrassed. Sherlock didn't think that Moriarty got embarrassed; apparently this was not the case. "Aeryn-Finn is very proud of her father..." "So you've decided she's a girl, then. And which father?" Sherlock commented dryly. "No, no, I just think that as Sherlock is a girl's name, if Baby is a boy, then he won't mind being addressed as "she"." Sherlock wanted to hit him. He didn't, though, because you don't hit the "mother" of your child. "Fine. Which father?" Jim was hyper and delighted once again. "Well, you can be father, and I'll be daddy!" Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing, as he didn't want Jim to go all Attila the Hun on him...
{To be continued in a few days...}