Set in the near future (with presumptions about Season 4) the Watsons share their euphoria after the birth of their baby girl with their Best Man/Best Friend.
Would Sherlock have been able to value such human emotions without the critical thresholds he experienced in A Scandal in Belgravia? This is a look at select moments from ASiB that influenced Sherlock's emotional development.
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Newborn.
Squirming.
Pink skin.
Bow mouth relaxed after a big yawn.
Deep blue eyes wide open to the visual cues and colors…'O brave new world/that has such people in it.' And John Watson was holding her.
Observing the proud father cradle his child in that first moment, Sherlock paused in the doorway of the private room in the maternity suite, a baby gift hidden behind his back. Something new and richer stirred within him.
Not to distract John from his paternal bonding with his offspring (resulting from the natural surge of oxytocin), Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb and suppressed his own outbursts of greetings and praise for the new parents—momentarily he stood there as a quiet witness to human joy—and experienced a vicarious thrill.
"How are we feeling about that?" A memory echoed.
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There was a gentle cadence in John's voice when the doctor had asked Sherlock the same question years ago, for an entirely different matter. Irene Adler had faked her death, after all. "So. She's alive then. How are we feeling about that?" The doctor's use of the psychoanalytic pronoun "we" did not go unnoticed.
Reluctant to admit it, Sherlock knew he was flawed by human emotions. It was not a shattering admission; rather, it was like observing the glaze of quality porcelain crazed with fine cracks. Some might criticize that they ruin the piece, others feel they lend character. Until then, he believed his sheer will and extraordinary intellect were enough to overcome distracting sentimentalism—the integrity of the glaze was strong and durable despite the hairline webbing.
However, the revelation on that New Year's Eve had awoken in Sherlock the solemn realization that human emotions were a doorway, not a piece of fine pottery, through which he was about to step. Disparaged for his "heartless character" throughout his life and work, the consulting detective remembered with total clarity that moment the door had flung open to an undeniable truth—not only did he care, he cared deeply, about people in his life.
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Cracks in his porcelain façade were partly John's fault—when a fondness grew between the arrogant detective and the invalided army doctor at the onset of their partnership. The subsequent cases with John became lessons in tolerance and compassion, which too frequently the world's only consulting detective found harder to comprehend than the most challenging cases he worked.
Yet, the loyal doctor's witticism—sometimes light-hearted with comic relief, other times sharp and penetrating—was, in Sherlock's Holmes' estimation, one of his partner's greatest gifts (second only, in truth, to John's loyalty, manifested through his flattery, which Sherlock enjoyed beyond words). In fact, John's immense value, which Sherlock appreciated in the doctor's understated stings of sarcasm, facetious compliments, and occasional outbursts of fury, was transformative. Through humor, irony, and sarcasm, John summarized the truths that mattered most to the consulting detective; Sherlock found John, and his quick asides, indispensable for advancing his own deductive reasoning that helped him find answers. Whilst he was reluctant to let on, John was making him a better detective.
So, when Moriarty's threatened to "burn… the heart out of you!"…, it was the first time the reputed, "heartless" detective felt truly vulnerable.
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not quite true."
Before, Sherlock hadn't cared about threats, because he hadn't cared FOR someone. In that defining moment, both he and Moriarty knew: John WAS his heart. When the exchange took place at pool side, Sherlock suspected that John Watson, due to his modest nature, might have been the only one present who didn't understand the full import of the threat.
"Caring" about John Watson, the consulting detective had come to realize, was more like a door ajar that cut a wedge of light within a dark room. Here was a glimmer of possibilities that Sherlock had not previously explored which both frightened and fascinated him. Was John making him a better man?
With the door now ajar, what else might enter?
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Fairy lights strung up for Christmas were just another childish tradition, but somehow necessary for Mrs. Hudson, even John, when they opened the flat for a small gathering to celebrate the holiday. Supercilious, Sherlock tolerated the fanfare because he actually liked the opportunity to show off his violin playing.
Some social faux paus occurred when their company was mixed with alcohol…or when people (other than John and Mrs. Hudson) were mulling around the flat: confusing his lovelorn flatmate's girlfriends was not malicious. The women just weren't important to remember—especially the "boring teacher." (John sometimes had trouble as well; he was going through so many, so fast; so desperate he appeared for female company.) Squashing misconceptions about Harry drying out or the ongoing infidelity in Lestrade's troubled marriage was a kindness, really. They would have found out sooner or later.
Still, these were hardly major, Sherlock recalled …until…
Until, he targeted Molly Hooper—the unkindest cut —for which the "heartless" detective experienced great shame.
"It said on the door to just come up." She arrived overdressed for the casual occasion bearing wrapped presents, one particular gift fancier than the rest. Her overt giddiness triggered the consulting detective's harsh (he thought 'playful' at the time) deduction sequence: "new boyfriend," "seeing him this very night and giving him a gift." He just couldn't stop himself, despite John's warning "Take the day off," and Lestrade suggesting he "Shut up and have a drink." Somehow they all knew before he did.
The embarrassment that followed was not that they read social cues he couldn't fathom, but that he had mortified the young woman—that he had caused her emotional pain. He hurt Molly Hooper—whom he realized in that instant, was someone he actually cared about. It was a shock! He had acted like a pre-adolescent boy—taunting the girl he liked; yet when it came to expressing sentimental feelings, in many ways he was pre-adolescent.
"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always…..Always." Her truth, as she struggled to speak through her tears, illuminated his unforgivable rudeness and social cruelty—the door was creaking open, flooding darkness with more light.
He was horrified at himself and nearly turned away to seek escape. Except, he swallowed hard, and faced the trembly woman with deep humility and a sincere apology: "I am sorry. Forgive me." Before he gently placed a tender kiss on her teary cheek, he expressed with genuine feeling, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."
That Sherlock exhibited an instinct for compassion he didn't realize he possessed even surprised John who, Sherlock noticed, seemed taken aback by the unexpected, (perhaps socially-appropriate?) restitution. Would it ever be sufficient? He would never know.
After his lips pulled away from Molly's remarkably soft cheek, he thought contritely, John will have to show me how to make better amends for wronging my friends.
In the next moment, his phone emitted an orgasmic sigh.
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Vaguely, Sherlock heard John's mild distaste behind the doctor's comment "Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I've heard," but the detective's thoughts were diverted to The Woman and the one-word text, plainly stating: "mantelpiece."
A dreaded silence enveloped the consulting detective as he pieced together the meaning of the small box on the mantelpiece, wrapped, as Molly had done, in the lipstick color of the giver. Ignoring John's questions, Sherlock excused himself from the room and retreated to his bedroom to open the package, already knowing, and somehow fearing, its contents.
With Irene Adler's camera phone in one hand, his phone in the other, he called Mycroft.
Quietly supportive, John followed his flatmate, pushed open the bedroom door that had been slightly ajar, and listened as Sherlock Holmes informed his brother that Irene Adler was dead.
"Are you okay?" John asked from the doorway after the call ended— as a good and caring friend would and should do.
"Yes." Clipped and detached, Sherlock deliberately shut the door on his friend and his emotions in one action. To his credit, John didn't hammer the solid wood barrier to be let back in. John UNDERSTOOD. Yet it was unsettling to the indifferent detective who proudly scorned emotional attachments, who loudly denounced love for its blinding effect on the intellect. Needing to distance himself because he was feeling emotions was untenable! What solid barrier could he raise to ward off invading sentiments, if rationale and logic had failed him?
The bigger questioned loomed: What and why was he feeling anything for The Woman?
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Later in St. Bart's morgue, accompanied by Mycroft and Molly (who was back on duty either because her Christmas had been ruined or because her help was needed?), he had identified the beaten body as the Woman Who Beat Sherlock Holmes. Hiding a sharp pang of loss, his mood succumbed to an inner darkness.
Doorways opened and closed: some in the morgue, some in his mind. He found himself in the corridor watching the soft snowfall through the window panes. Again, the hallway door opened. Mycroft approached him and offered him a cigarette. Between them, there were no words of consolation, just this one act of sympathy. Normally abstaining, Sherlock yielded to the temptation. At such a low point in his resolve, the younger Holmes did not care his older sibling would consider this a weakness on two counts; both that he accepted the cigarette and that he smoked it in his presence.
Standing side-by-side with his brother, Sherlock observed a grieving family in the reception area just beyond the morgue doors and tried to be cynical. He failed. "Look at them. They all CARE so much…" the emphasis on the word lacked his usually intense derision. "Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?"
"All lives end. All hearts are broken." Sherlock rarely heard Mycroft sound so gentle. Not for long. The older Holmes concluded with a warning. "Caring is not an advantage," as he cut a glance sideways and finished with an authoritative tone: "Sherlock."
Exhaling disappointment, Sherlock recovered his boorishness to examine the fag and exclaimed with displeasure, "This is LOW tar!"
"Well," Mycroft paused for effect. "You barely knew her." So much said in five clever words. Sherlock grinned, a soft chuckle escaped, as he moved away.
"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," the downcast detective strolled toward the exit alone, flicking ash on the floor. His brother's congenial reply "and a Happy New Year," reverberated in the corridor. Briefly another new door had opened, and just as quickly closed.
However, Sherlock felt neither merry nor happy, merely 'careless' as he left the hospital morgue in a taxicab. Was he careless enough to be self-destructive? Was this a danger night? There was a fog in his head making those answers unclear. If the temptation arose, he wasn't sure if he would resist.
Apparently his "friends" feared this as well. When he arrived back at 221B Baker Street and surveyed the flat from the threshold, he observed the changes caused by their careless meddling: undoubtedly the dynamic Baker-Street Duo showed no consideration in restoring objects they had moved, dust they had disturbed, nor had they sense to replace his books as he had them arranged on the shelves. It was more than likely they weren't aware he deliberately placed each book, like music on a sheet, in a 'melody of positions' —some pushed forward on the shelf, others shoved back—creating a visual symphony only he could recognize as he looked at his collection. If one 'note' were wrong, he would know it.
Obviously, the living room (and presumably every room?) had been hurriedly searched, nor was the flat empty as he had anticipated and somewhat hoped. John had NOT gone to his sister's. John was NOT out with the "boring teacher" celebrating Christmas. Instead, still wearing the silly, 'festive' Christmas jumper, John WAS quietly reading from his armchair feigning nonchalance as he greeted his returning flatmate in the doorway.
"Oh… Hi."
Sherlock, seeing right through the rouse, remained silent.
"You okay?" John continued the charade of normalcy, despite Sherlock's blank stare and piercing eyes that seemed to be seeing everything, but signifying nothing.
Silence was what the consulting detective wanted that night, silence to be alone with his thoughts and to master some control over his rampant distress. Doors continued to close and open in his mind, contradictions swinging between annoyance that John thought he needed to stay close, and gratitude that John chose to stay close; offence that they needed to watch him for addiction and relief that they cared to watch him for addiction. Here, also there were no words of consolation, just more acts of kindness.
"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time." Sherlock muttered without rancor as he exited through the kitchen, and firmly shut his bedroom door.
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It had been a week of stony silence, except for his music. On paper it was calculated and brilliantly mathematical. In translation on the violin, however, it revealed his struggle. He was haunted by the unresolved problems: the 4-digit phone code and the human element—The enigmatic Woman—who, by dying, stole answers he was seeking, even if some of his questions hadn't been completely formed. This grief over loss sounded like the "Lovely tune," Mrs. Hudson found disconcerting, "Haven't heard that one before," and it prompted John to state the obvious. "You composing?"
"Helps me to think"
"What are you thinking about?"
John's question triggered a sudden insight and Sherlock exploded with an idea: "The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five!"
"Yeah, it's faulty. Can't seem to fix it." John shrugged.
"Faulty – or you've been hacked and it's a message." This was the first spark of excitement in nearly a week as the consulting detective quickly thumbed in the numeric digits "1895" to break Irene Adler's security code. Instead, the "I AM - LOCKED" screen beeped with the warning: "Wrong Passcode. 3 Attempts Remaining."
"Just faulty." Sherlock muttered deflated. Without further word, he turned away toward the window and resumed playing his violin—the dirge-like melody oppressing everyone within earshot.
Treading lightly about the flat all week, John and Mrs. Hudson didn't know what to make of him or his composition. The two of them spent inordinate time in conspiratorial whispering and murmurings about his lack of food consumption, his reticence, and his solitary concentration on his problem.
They both had been warned. I play the violin when I'm thinking. I might go days on end without talking. These were those days.
Keeping his voice even and pleasant, John at last made an announcement to the room in general, "Right. Well, I'm going out for a bit." Implicit was It's New Year's Eve for God's Sake! How long will this unhealthy withdrawal, this silent treatment last?
Sherlock didn't really know how long it would take. He did know, however, that John felt helpless and it was wearing the good doctor down. Always a patient man, John's tolerance was growing thin, although he masked his frustration with a maddening compassion that compelled Sherlock to withdraw even more.
I can't use anyone's help. I must work this out on my own. I need to shut out every distraction.
Yet, Sherlock knew he would have to resolve his conflict soon before the door shut entirely and the last wedge of light was lost to all-consuming darkness.
Am I driving John away? Will John go and not come back?
Even so, the subdued detective remained unresponsive, playing lightly on the violin, but now listening harder as John and Mrs. Hudson conspired again in the threshold of the kitchen.
"Listen, has he ever had anykind of ..." John was using his confidential tone, reserved for intimates, which Mrs. Hudson had become especially in this matter, "… girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?
Even the shrill timbre of Mrs. Hudson voice was softened with sympathy. "I don't know."
"How can WE not know?"
"He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?"
Mrs. Hudson's answered seemed to satisfy John who sighed then offered his usual sign off, "Right, see ya," as he bounded down the stairs.
When Mrs. Hudson left immediately after, Sherlock finally laid down his violin. He had thought enough.
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Right after he discovered the truth about the 'deceased' Irene Adler, doors flew open and closed, not just in his mind, but in his heart.
Sherlock was as surprised as John—well, maybe more so—when he heard HER voice greet his friend in the cavernous and abandoned Battersea Power Station. The echoing tone of the ensuing conversation was edgy. John was protective and The Woman defensive as they sparred over Sherlock's emotional well-being.
Rooted to the spot where he could safely eavesdrop, Sherlock listened to the sound of genuine loyalty as his one true friend angrily confronted The Woman:
Tell him you're alive.
He'd come after me.
I'll come after you if you don't.
Mmm, I believe you.
You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you.
DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.
And I bet you know the record-keeper.
I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear.
Then how come I can see you, and I don't even want to?
Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help.
No.
It's for his own safety.
So's this. Tell him you're alive.
I can't.
Fine. I'll tell him, and I still won't help you.
The quiet fury of John Watson, undaunted by The Woman who had taken down many adversaries, was compelling to hear. Sherlock held his breath when he perceived her replies were salted by atonement.
What do I say?
What do you normally say? You've texted him A LOT! Enraged for his friend, the soldier had taken the offensive.
Just the usual stuff.
There is no 'usual' in this case.
Irene was obviously reading from her phone: "Good morning;" "I like your funny hat;" "I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner," ...
Sherlock could imagine John cringing as she recited her taunting texts.
"You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch'. Let's have dinner;" "I'm not hungry, let's have dinner."
John interrupted her, his incredulity fueled by great indignation.You ... flirted with Sherlock Holmes?!
At him. He never replies.
The sound of unmistakable wrath drove every word in his reply. No, Sherlock ALWAYS replies – to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive GOD trying to have the last word.
Does that make me special?
... I don't know. Maybe.
Are you jealous?
We're not a couple.
Yes you are. There ...
Greatly distracted by the battle between them, Sherlock failed to anticipate what might be happening as he stood still as stone in the nearby corridor. His mind raced in dizzying circles, as his heart beat loudly. Complex reactions and a gamut of emotions about both John and Irene forced him to recognize how deeply he cared. It mattered that John bristled with defiance on his behalf. It also mattered that Irene seemed insecure, vulnerable, disadvantaged by forces of attraction she seemed unable to master despite her dominatrix reputation.
"I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."
Sherlock shook his head free of tumultuous thoughts, wondering what he had missed as their conversation resumed. John was speaking again:
Who ... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay.
Well, I am. Look at us both.
Sherlock heard John laughed softly at the irony just before the phone in his pocket betrayed him with a loud orgasmic sigh. "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner." Shutting it off, the confused genius sped away.
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The threshold was crossed as he fled.
It was undeniable. His single-minded "love" for the intellect-bending challenges in his work—The Work, was once the only reason he would fast, write music, barely talk… "except to yell at the telly." Now, love had expanded to include people and this love had acquired multifaceted dimensions as diverse as the people about whom he cared profoundly. He felt fierce allegiance, affection, warmth, friendship, and yes, even passion. Doors were opening, doors that had previously been locked, and he was helpless to keep them shut. Even worse, he was on the brink of losing control…
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Back at Baker Street, alarms sounded, not on the street, but in his head as he observed the unlocked front door— obvious signs of tampering. Easily it swung open with a light shove. On the interior door, he splayed his palm against the smoked glass and pushed. It too opened effortlessly. Alarms in his head screamed louder as he observed signs of Mrs. Hudson, interrupted in her chores, and he imagined, dragged up the stairs to his flat by assailants.
Mrs. Hudson in danger! The door flung wide at last. Unleashed rage drove Sherlock up the stairs and into his flat to deal with the operatives who dared to trespass— who dared to harm someone he loved. They were expecting the cool, composed detective to trade the camera phone for the hostage. They were no match for the genius wronged.
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Mrs. Hudson's rescue refocused the keen mind on what mattered— protecting the people at home, his home.
Once they were assured Mrs. Hudson was fine, the two men returned to their flat where John poured himself a drink and opened what he hoped would be a discussion. "So. She's alive then." John rocked on his feet, pacing his words, as Sherlock tuned his violin. How are we feeling about that?"
The question floated, like the first toll of Big Ben which sounded the hour from a great distance.
"Happy New Year, John."
The emotional impact of Irene Adler's resurrection was not lost on John. He tried once more. "Do you think you'll be seeing her again?" When Sherlock began playing "Auld Lang Syne" John understood, gave his friend the requisite space, and hoped they both could let bygones be bygones.
Maybe she was not so "bye-gone" for the relieved man who privately gave his first reply to The intriguing Woman:
Happy New Year
SH
The Woman felt first forgiven, then dangerously empowered.
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Six months later, the helpless Damsel appeared one more time, but Sherlock had regained control, keeping aloof and composed in her presence. Instead, she had become their "client," in need of assistance. Her chemistry seemed less effective on the indifferent detective, until she slyly threw down the challenge. "One of the best cryptographers in the country…" in compromising positions, she admitted, "couldn't figure it out."
With his rapid mind sorting the encrypted string of numbers, motion slowed, and all else faded.
"Go on. Impress a girl." Was the button that started the stopwatch of Sherlock's processing. Less than eight seconds later, he had the answer. "There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true, but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds."
Whilst John looked stunned and Irene showed genuine amazement, her eyes afire with surprise, Sherlock dismissed them with a shake of his head. "Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look .." and he explained in rapid-fire detail his thought process that led to his conclusion. Their continued silence was met with mitigated condescension. "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."
The answer won, Irene could have taken her leave as a satisfied client, but she didn't. She lingered. Poised to satisfy a personal curiosity about the consulting detective during John's absence from the flat, Irene exploited her talents of touch and insinuation to draw forth the burning heart of the dispassionate scientist. However, her titillating efforts at greater intimacy were frustrated when Sherlock was escorted away by 'suits' who worked for his brother.
In a plane of dead "passengers," Myrcoft met the younger Holmes to demonstrate the consequences of entanglements with The Woman. It was not a MOD official, the older man explained heatedly, but Sherlock's own naiveté and penchant for puzzles that toppled the top-secret plan. Terrorist cells were informed and the Coventry Conundrum exposed, all because the great detective fell prey to her wiles.
She had played him like a fiddle.
And soon, Irene Adler's impeccable appearance brought her where she wanted to be all along, at the negotiating table, parlaying with the political power in the older Holmes' home. Still smarting from her disdainful rebuff, Sherlock listened nearby from the armchair by the fire as she repeatedly whipped his brother and the British government with her strategic manipulations and her exorbitant demands. Fingers resting on his temple in thought, the played-out genius was haunted with silent regret at the harm he had caused.
Just when she was on top of her game, she made a serious mistake: "I can't take all the credit. Had a bit of help. Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."
Eyes flickered, then narrowed, fingers recoiled from the place on his temple and curled into a fist. Sherlock's mind began to race.
"Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. D'you know what he calls you?" She sat on the edge of the table with her legs crossed, her delicate frame emanating power. "The Ice Man, and…" She paused, turning toward the younger man seated in the armchair, and finished wickedly, "the Virgin. Didn't even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."
Something significant was formulating in the consulting detective's thoughts and he closed his eyes.
He heard defeat in Mycroft's reply. "And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees. Nicely played."
Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened with exhilarating clarity. They were alike. Through deception, she played with other's hearts, pretending to be heartless; he pretended to be heartless, flaying sentimentalism, but was ultimately deceiving himself. Alike, but still opposite, and opposites attracted. Her duplicity about her feelings was about to be her undoing.
"No!" Sherlock arose, objecting to her dominance, a new confidence instilling a masterful command which astonished Irene and Mycroft. He spurned her haughty pretense "Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you?" He saw through her verbal disdain, because he had witnessed her biochemistry—her elevated pulse, her dilated pupils —which through his seductive soft touch and whispering tones as he explained the facts of human biology, could not lie even now.
"I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive." Sherlock picked up her camera phone and walked across the room. Instinctively, she followed, her body language already betraying her.
"When we first met," Sherlock was in control of his voice, his mind and his heart. He had also become confident in the art of seduction, which he had learned from the best—from her," you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe – your measurements; but this ..." The coveted camera phone he flipped in the air, catching it in his warm hand, "... this is far more intimate. This is your heart ..."
Sherlock addressed her with the white heat of his intellectual power "... and you should never let it rule your head." Dominating her with his powerful stare, he slowly and precisely pressed the code, one punch at a time, into the phone, punctuating each statement with the correct sequence.
S
Eyes trapped by his gaze, Irene began to panic.
"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for ..."
H
" ... but you just couldn't resist it, could you?"
She was trying to catch her breath, her lungs heaving, as Sherlock's lips formed a victorious smile.
"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage ..."
E
"Thank You for the final proof."
Before he could supply the last character, she stopped his hand, her face beseeching, her words intimating deep affection in the softest whisper. "Everything I said: it's not real. I was just playing the game."
He refused to be fooled by emotion, whether real or imagined, and freed his hand. "I know," he said quietly and punched R. " And this is just losing."
To be free of her, he had to show no concern for her future, despite her tears, her fears, and her plea that she would not survive without her protection. Taking her words and their truth into consideration, Sherlock gave her one final glance. "Sorry about dinner." A door opened in his heart. No. He actively opened the door and stepped through, leaving her to wonder in horror about her fate, when he closed it behind him.
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To be human meant to be flawed by emotions and to be plagued by their vagaries. Breaking Irene Adler's code was not a problem he could have solved in a vacuum, alone in his sterilized Mind Palace devoid of emotion. He realized if he hadn't allowed his emotions to read her social cues in the flat when they shared a new intimacy and again when he touched her wrist in Mycroft's home, he would not have literally felt with such certainty the answer they needed. It was not a math puzzle after all, but a human enigma confusing love and matters of the heart with logic. In the end logic won, but the consulting detective stood on the threshold of a decision. Could he truly close and lock the door now that he had proof "love is a dangerous disadvantage," or would the lure of love's danger entice him to keep the door wide open and hazard the unpredictable challenges it might cause? John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, yes even Mycroft, and especially The Woman, were just the tantalizing beginning… and Sherlock loved challenges.
Triumphantly Sherlock had passed the dangerous threshold Irene Adler had presented— he had exceeded the magnitude and intensity of wild passion—and survived with his intellect and will intact. She had given him the "final proof" that unmanaged "sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." With great certainty, Sherlock knew there would never be another like The Woman in his life; nor would he be victimized ever again by besotted love. He had learned the meaning of love for his friends, devotion to his work, and control over emotions for The Woman.
And, when he loved, it would be HIS choice.
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"How are WE feeling about that?" The echo from the past resounded in the present.
We! A smile tugged the edges of Sherlock's lips as he listened to cooing sounds of his partner—enthralled by the presence of new life resting in the crook of his right elbow. John spoke softly in awe to the delicate infant wrapped in a hospital-issue baby blanket as he sat beside Mary's bed and clutched his tired wife's hand.
Reservations about disturbing this Watson Tableau of a Domestic Milestone ran through Sherlock's mind, but the preoccupied new parents were expecting him. He had promised them he wouldn't leave. How could he say no when Mary was yowling in labor between rhythmic breathing. John's brow had been so creased with worry and concern that no words were necessary for Sherlock to know he must stay close by.
Yet, the consulting detective's tall figure in a long black coat immobilized in the doorway somehow escaped their notice until he hesitantly stepped forward into the room. Immediately the euphoric couple pulled him into their exhilarated banter of new parents on the verge of exhaustion after so many hours of labor.
"Oh, Sherlock? Come in! Come in! John, show Sherlock! Isn't she precious? Perfect! A miracle! Oh, such a treasure she is! Isn't she beautiful?" Mary's voice hit the soprano range as her spirits spiraled up.
John nodded, stammering "yes! yes! yes! yes! yes! yes!" with a broad grinned fixed permanently on his weary face. Yet, despite his fatigue, the smile originated from his eyes.
Exchanging well wishes and socially appropriate remarks, which Sherlock had rehearsed weeks before (filtered through the exact specifications of Molly Hooper), he then presented them with the flat, gift-wrapped box.
"Oh! What is it Sherlock?" Mary declared, her eyebrows raised as she shot a look at John.
"Isn't that the point of the wrapping it up? It's supposed to 'surprise' the recipient. Though it never works for me." Sherlock seemed puzzled and glanced over at John to see if he had made another social plunder.
"Ha. It's okay, Sherlock." John chuckled before returning his gaze to the baby he held. " A rhetorical question is a natural response.. People often ask that question when they receive a wrapped gift." He snapped his head up as if a thought struck him, and hesitated. "Just tell me it's not an eyeball or some kind of experiment you preserved in glass."
"John!" Both Mary and Sherlock objected simultaneously.
"Of course it isn't, right Sherlock?" Although Mary immediately took his side, she reserved some hesitation that mirrored her husband's.
"Open it." Sherlock smiled softly. "I had it made specially months ago…"
Mary quickly peeled off the wrapping, opened the lid and looked in the box. "Oh!" She seemed surprise at first. Tears welled in her eyes.
"What is it, Mary?" John eyes darted with concern between his wife's face and his friend's. His fears were allayed when he saw them both smiling.
"It's a magnifying glass…rattle…teething ring?!" She held up a delicately stemmed handle that was topped with a round plastic lens, covered in pliant teething material. The handle rattled lightly when shaken.
"Charming. Well done!" John laughed so hard, his body shook, tears streamed down his face and the baby woke. Quickly he rocked her back to sleep.
Assuming this was an overall good reaction, Sherlock smile broadly. "Thought had occurred. The next generation should learn as early as possible."
"Thank you, Sherlock!" Mary beckoned him to lean over her bedside, rewarding him with an affectionate kiss on his cheek. John continued laughing softly with a giddiness that spoke of too little sleep over too many hours.
Once the new parents calmed down at last, John cut a glance toward Mary, who nodded her assent. Gently rising so as not to wake her, John turned with his baby now in both arms toward his friend, his eyes shimmering. "Can you believe…this…this miracle? Here. D'y wanna hold her?"
Sherlock met his friend's gaze with equal pride and wonder. To be part of this pivotal moment, to be included and welcomed in the shared life of his dear friends…well he couldn't pinpoint how he was feeling, but if he could ever gush, this would be the time.
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A.N. While I do diligently review (over and over and over) Sherlock episodes to transcribe dialog (over which I claim no rights) from the BBC show, I shortened my labors immensely again, during the course of composing this fanfiction, thanks to the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am now greatly indebted.
Your reviews sustain the writer in me. So. How are WE feeling about THIS?
As always, thank you for all your support!