When Jean opened her eyes, she became aware of the strong arm wrapped around her. She recognized the hold in an instant, the steady strength that belonged only to her father. Strong, but always gentle. Many nights, when nightmares plagued her sleep, he would take her into his arms, hold her close as her mother stroked her hair, speaking to her until she fell asleep again.
Her eyes watered up and she swallowed the lump in her throat. She considered remaining there, but the familiarity of it hurt too much without her mother's presence. Slowly, she pulled away, careful not to disturb the doctor as she slid out of the old bed.
Jean smoothed her dress the best that she could, frowning as she realized that both she and her father had fallen asleep in their day clothes. Typically it was not something the military training that had been bred into Watson's mind would allow, but these were rather special circumstances. Still, Jean found it strange.
She looked around the unfamiliar room, curiosity bubbling up in her as it did every child in a new environment. Creeping about on her tip-toes, she picked through the contents of the room, scrunching up her face as she found nothing of terrible interest. She could not read the thick texts on her own, and she had no interest for the old papers. She considered trying to look in the massive bag set across the desk, but it was set too high, and she knew she would only end up knocking something down and creating a horrible racket.
Instead, Jean moved as stealthily as she could - mind, she was a child, and that was not very stealthily at all - quitting the room. The sitting room was much more exciting, filled with contraptions and trinkets completely foreign to her. How very strange a man Mr. Holmes was, and so different from her father. First, Jean moved to the curious tiger-skin rug at the center of the room, going on to her hands and knees so that she could stroke the fur. It was softer than she would've imagined from such a powerful beast, like velvet under her fingertips. Next, she moved on to what looked to be an assortment of… well, she wasn't sure.
Jean picked up what looked to be a rubber nose and blinked, placing it over her face and looking in the mirror. It was much too big for her, and she giggled had to try very hard to stifle her giggles. She tried on several pieces of various guises - sideburns and wigs, and other strange things - until she was completely mismatched.
"Are you quite finished?"
Jean jumped and whirled around, her eyes going wide as saucers as her gaze fell on Holmes. She hadn't even heard him, yet he was standing right behind her. She ducked her head guiltily, quickly pulling off an old gray wig, as if it would really keep him from knowing. "I-I'm sorry Mr. Holmes," she stumbled over herself, glancing desperately toward the bedroom her father was in, hoping that he would come and save her. Unfortunately, she had no such luck.
Holmes raised an eyebrow, that being the only change in his expression. It did nothing to ease the poor girl. He reached out, picking the disguise off of her as she looked away and fidgeted guiltily.
"Sorry," she repeated. "I was just-"
"Snooping through someone else's belongings."
She cringed, looking as if she'd like to go run and hide somewhere. There was no sympathy in his eyes like there often was with other adults when they dealt with children. No soft voice, or heavy sigh, followed by a gentle scolding. She would much rather be sent to her room than have to sit there under his unwavering gaze. Jean could feel tears swelling up in her eyes and her jaw trembled as she tried to fight them off.
Holmes, setting everything back where it belonged, turned back to the girl. Her gaze shifted left and right, looking anywhere but at him. He felt a flicker of resentment toward her, pursing his lips into a thin line. It was ridiculous, of course. She was only a little girl. She could hardly be looked at as the guilty party, even if she was the cause of the effect. Finally, Jean's blue eyes landed on him again, meeting his gaze and it nearly caused both of them to cringe and look away again.
Holmes was very familiar with her eyes, though she didn't know it. They were a mirror image of her father's, right down to the little fleck of darker color just beneath the pupil. However, Holmes had never seen said eyes glistening with tears, so open and innocent. When he first met Watson, right after he'd been discharged from Afghanistan, he'd been anything but.
Jean's fingers curled into fists, tugging at her dress until finally, she could take it no more. She'd been just about to run off when something else seemed to capture Holmes' attention, and he looked toward the door. She was thoroughly confused, until it opened and an older woman stepped inside, carrying with her a basket of Holmes' laundry, which she set aside, knowing she would only be shooed from his room. She tossed the sleuth the morning paper.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes greeted, sinking down into his favorite chair like a lazy cat, leaving Jean standing in the middle of the room. "I do hope you'll be starting breakfast soon."
"If you'll actually be eating it, and not using it for your experiments," the woman responded dryly before she realized that there was another presence in the room. She blinked slowly and quickly put on a comforting smile. The poor girl looked scared witless. "Hello, who is this, Mr. Holmes? Not a client, I hope?"
"No," Holmes responded before Jean could think to. "She and her father will be staying with us for a while."
Mrs. Hudson looked surprised before the expression settled into incredulity. "Is that what all that in my hallway is? Now, what man in his right mind would bring his child to live with you?" Holmes raised an eyebrow, almost looking amused, but he gave no response. With a long- suffering sigh, Mrs. Hudson lowered herself to Jean's level, putting on another winning smile for her sake. "Now, what's your name, sweetheart?"
The little girl shifted uncomfortably for a minute, but seemed to deem the landlady as less of a threat than Holmes was. "Jean, ma'am."
"And your full name?"
"Jean Lena Watson."
Holmes, who had lit his first pipe of the morning, watched the emotions flit across his landlady's face with great amusement. Surprise, uncertainty, understanding, exasperation, delight, and then finally, confusion. "Well…" Mrs. Hudson straightened herself, sending Holmes a look that said she would be getting an explanation by the end of the day, "I'll just start breakfast, then. For three?"
"Unpoisoned please, Nanny."
Jean's eyes widened slightly as Mrs. Hudson sent him a dark look and turned to leave. She almost wanted to follow the landlady, just so that she would not have to remain alone in the room with the detective. However, glancing over at him, she saw that his attention was no longer focused on her, his eyes instead skimming over the morning's headlines. Hesitantly, she stepped over the things littering the floor, climbing onto the settee and curling up into a ball.
For a while, it was quiet. It didn't stay that way for long, as children - as well as consulting detectives, when they did not have things like the paper to occupy them with - are prone to quick boredom. Despite her uncertainty of the man, she could not simply sit there quietly. "Mr. Holmes?" she spoke up. Holmes didn't even look up from the paper. Jean frowned, not sure if she had been heard. "Mr. Holmes?"
Restraining a sigh, he lowered the paper enough to look at the girl over it. She cringed under his dark eyes, falling silent. Exasperated, he looked back at the text. Again, the silence didn't last long.
"M-Mr. Holmes?"
Forcing himself to remain calm, he responded, this time keeping his gaze on the morning ink. "Yes, Ms. Watson?"
"How do you know my daddy?"
That brought the great detective to a pause. He lowered the paper again to look at Jean and she quickly ducked under the arm of the settee, her familiar eyes peering at him just over it. Holmes seriously doubted Watson wanted him to tell the girl how they ran around the streets of London, stopping crooks and murderers, and often causing major damage all at the same time.
"Is that not a better question for him?" Once again, his focus turned elsewhere, breathing in a long drag from his pipe.
Silence. A little rustle from the settee. More silence. Holmes could feel her gaze on him, no longer uncertain, but extremely curious. He folded the paper down, looking at her pointedly. "Yes, Ms. Watson?"
She cringed, ducking behind the arm of the settee. If Holmes were a lesser man, he might have thrown his arms up in frustration. As it was, the only part of him that betrayed his annoyance was the slightest twitch of his left eyebrow. With a deep breath to calm himself he sunk back into his reading. Mercifully, that was when Watson chose to enter.
"Good morning," the doctor greeted cautiously, his gaze flickering between them. Holmes looked calm enough - didn't he always? - but Jean was currently hiding herself in the crook of the settee, and that couldn't be a good sign.
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."
The doctor frowned and sighed, approaching the back of the settee and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Jean's head. "Always a pleasure to see you in such high spirits, old boy."
Jean reached up, curling her fingers into her father's sleeve and holding him there a moment. "What does that mean?"
Watson's frown vanished in an instant, replaced by the pride that always came to any parent who saw their child growing one way or another. Holmes glanced over his paper, raising an eyebrow. Never had he seen his friend's mood change so quickly. "It means that I'm glad to see him happy."
Jean appeared confused. "He's happy?" She looked to Holmes, who once more had to force himself not to be extremely annoyed. He reminded himself that she was only a child.
The other man, meanwhile, laughed at the confusion. "No." He swept the child up into his arms. "That was sarcasm."
"What is sarcasm?"
Holmes sat by quietly as Watson explained. Each explanation seemed to lead to another question, one that the physician was happy to answer, no matter how long it continued. Watson seemed to forget that he was in the room entirely, something Holmes had not at all expected. In the past, Watson's attention had always been at least partly on him, even when in Mary's presence. But Jean, this small child, completely captivated the doctor. He smiled, despite the gloom Holmes had seen on him the night before, and his eyes glowed with an affection he'd never before seen.
His insides curled up with something cold and bitter.
"Breakfast," Mrs. Hudson announced, nudging the door open with her shoulder, carrying two trays with her.
Jean began to wriggle away from her father's arms immediately. While Watson did the best he could, it had been some time since she'd had a properly cooked meal.
Chuckling, Watson rubbed the back of his neck. "Hello Mrs. Hudson," he greeted, sending her a somewhat guilty smile. He truly felt bad for having not visited once, and he knew his landlady would be more likely to call him out on it than Holmes.
However, instead of the reproachful look he'd been expecting, he instead received a smile. "Hello Doctor. It's good to see you."
"And you." Pleased, he took a seat at the small table, next to Jean. "How have you been?"
"Well enough, I suppose." She set the food before them. "Your daughter is lovely."
His eyes positively burned with pride. "Thank you." Glancing to the side as he realized that there were only two of them at the table, he frowned. "Are you joining us for dinner, Holmes?"
The sleuth dropped the paper he'd been pretending to read and swept up from his sitting chair. "I've lost my appetite, actually."
"Mr. Holmes-" Mrs. Hudson started, but before she could think to scold him, he was out of the room, the door closing firmly behind him.
There was a silence in the room. And then, tentatively, "Is Mr. Holmes mad at me?"
Watson's lips pursed. "No, no, Jeanie." What had suddenly come over Holmes, he didn't know. He had seemed somewhat disagreeable when Watson woke up, but hardly enough to lock himself in his room. "It wasn't you."
"I think it was…"
The doctor's heart ached. He didn't want his daughter to believe that she might be the cause of whatever mood Holmes found himself in, but how could he explain to a child what exactly happened to his dear friend? Mrs. Hudson took pity on him.
"It wasn't your fault, dear," the landlady assured, resting a hand on Jean's shoulder. "Sometimes Mr. Holmes just gets… sad."
"Why?"
Watson and Mrs. Hudson exchanged an anxious glance. The doctor knew he'd have to face this eventually, he just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. "I wish we knew, darling."
After that, it fell silent again. They ate quietly. Watson tried not to look at Holmes' empty armchair, and tried not to be angry at his friend, and tried not to be heartbroken every time Jean looked toward Holmes' door in a mix of sorrow and curiosity.
After breakfast, Watson and Jean carried their belongings to their new - and old - room. They unpacked their things, and made it a little more comfortable. Being a child, Jean could not remain quiet long. She chattered a little, asked questions, and told stories that Watson gladly listened to. However, he couldn't help straining his ears, hoping he'd hear Holmes leave his room. He had no such luck. Every hour that rolled by in which he didn't hear the detective, he grew more and more angry with him.
If that man had turned to the syringe, especially with Jean in the house, Watson would have a few very ungentlemanly words for him.
After dinner - Mrs. Hudson made a wonderful meal that they were both very grateful for - Watson helped Jean into her newly unpacked night-clothes. She curled up in bed, watching her father as he stroked her hair soothingly.
"Will you tell me a story?"
He smiled affectionately. "Of course, my heart. Would you like me to get one of your books?"
Jean shook her head. "I want to hear one of the ones about 'The Doctor and The Detective'."
He was surprised, though he knew he shouldn't have been; they were her favorite. Old adventures, not so long forgotten, though he never used his or Holmes' names while telling them. Of course, he obscured many details, making sure that they were not too harsh for Jean's young age. Holmes would've killed him if he knew that he'd turned their cases into children's adventure stories. However, Mary had never discouraged them. She'd felt it would be good for her to hear, as she would no doubt find out about his past life eventually.
"Alright. Which one would you like to hear?"
Jean grinned and Watson already knew the answer. "The one with the blue jewel."
"Ah, the Blue Carbuncle," the doctor chuckled, tucking a lock of hair behind Jean's ear as he considered. She positively adored that one, despite how many times he retold it. "Very well. I will tell it again. Are you comfortable?" Jean nodded eagerly. "Alright."
"It was the second morning after Christmas. The doctor and the detective…"
Holmes scoffed softly as he heard the doctor's voice. He crept silently through the sitting room, pulling a coat on over his shoulders. He could not imagine a single fact finding its way into whatever tales Watson told his daughter. It might as well all be lies. He didn't bother with a hat, knowing he would only lose it at the boxing ring.
The last thing he heard before he stepped out to the darkening streets was Jean finishing a sentence for Watson. He wondered how often fables were told.