"Molly, we need to talk." Sherlock was sitting in an armchair, waiting for his daughter to emerge from her room. He had heard her move out of his and into hers, previously John's. "About this behaviour."
"Uncle Mycroft says you've done drugs." His daughter called from the bedroom.
"Ah, has he?" Sherlock grew irritated, head in his hands. "What else has your dear uncle told you?"
"That you're babying me and you need to prepare me for the real world." She had come into the parlour-like room. "That you need to teach me real life skills."
"Oh such as what? How to escape without being seen? How to manipulate people? How to be incredibly antisocial and disruptive-"
"Uncle Mycroft is hardly antisocial. He runs a lot of things! He has to work with a lot of people!"
"Goldfish," Sherlock snorted. "He considers them all goldfish. They hold no more interest to him than American Football does to any of us."
"That's not true! He's interested in me!" Molly protested. Her uncle was the only one who was always there. Her uncle was always looking out for her. He and her "Aunt" Mary were the greatest people in her life. While her father seemed to always be out, always letting strange people into the flat for his stupid job as consulting detective, never paying any attention-they paid attention. Sometimes her uncle paid too much attention, but it was attention. Her father only paid attention when she was misbehaving, or when she was hiding something, or when he wanted to prove how much smarter than her he was.
She had watched an American show a few times, terrible though it sometimes seemed to be, called Psych. It was reruns and they were only online, but she felt exactly like the main character sometimes. His father was always testing him, always proving he was smarter, always putting him down, always quizzing him.
"Your uncle is less capable of emotion than I am." Sherlock's eyes rolled. "But he's ever the clever pretender. He doesn't find you any more interesting than a science experiment."
"That's not true!"
"Molly, look at me. Am I lying?"
She was readying to scream, pull out her hair punch her "father" in the face.
"I don't know, why don't you tell me?"
"Molly, look at me. Look at me, am I lying to you?" His blue eyes met his mirror images. It was a pity he'd raised her to think she was normal. The reason she was such an experiment to her uncle was because he knew she was going to snap, stop pretending she was something she wasn't. She was the daughter of two completely manipulative sociopaths. There was no way in hell she was a normal girl. And her father was entirely aware of that fact, and so was everyone around her-whether or not she was awake enough to recognize it.
But she was getting bored of it all, of the act. He could tell. That's why she had started sneaking out, yelling, questioning, throwing things, two weeks prior to last nights escapade she had thoroughly convinced John she was sick in the head when he'd come home to his medical books scattered through his study and her asleep amongst the rubble.
"Stop testing me! That's all you ever do! Question! Test! Judge!" She screeched, stomping her foot like a child. Her father had to chuckle, shaking his head.
"You do that, too."
"No! I don't! You're such a freak!"
"You lie to your friends' faces when you go out with them." Sherlock was genuinely amused, and had not yet realized it was time to stop pushing.
"I do not." She hissed and crossed her arms.
Spoiled.
He'd spoiled her.
He'd let her get away with everything.
"I can't believe you! You're supposed to be my father! You're pushing everyone away from me! You're pushing me away from everyone!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as she stormed out of the flat, no doubt on her way to be picked up by her uncle—since he seemed to lack anything else to do for his job. He, himself, picked up the phone to call John.
"You were drugged?" Mary gasped. "Sherlock!"
"Oh, don't be that way, Mary." John groaned. "He let her drug him."
"It's men like you," Mary scolded, "Who completely and utterly disgust women. Sherlock was raped, have a little more respect." She wasn't angry, but she knew why her husband was.
John looked about ready to disagree, but kept his mouth shut, ever wise.
"I don't know what happened, Mary." Sherlock was still an emotional wreck. "I don't know, but one moment I was alone—and then she was there. She—" His throat closed up. "I don't remember." It was a complete and utter lie, he was fully aware of everything that happened. He remembered taking a drink, knowing she'd touched it but doubting his own thoughts. Who was this woman to make him doubt his judgement? She certainly was not Mycroft, always criticizing.
He remembered waking up to her face leaning over his, her body over his own, naked body.
He remembered the odd sensations, but he didn't want to think about it.
For the first time, Sherlock Holmes hated his gifted memory. Whether it was for utter disgust and disinterest in the activity that had taken place that day or for his confused feelings towards The Woman, he hadn't a clue.
He just wished to forget.
"And now she—"
Sherlock nodded, face pale, no ability to speak even still.
"That's horrible." Mary gasped. "Oh, Sherlock. John, why don't you fetch him a cup of tea? Sherlock, sit down. Right here, on the couch. Nice, deep breaths. Close your eyes, rest your mind."
For all of the brains and wits his former flatmate's wife had, she sometimes forgot that Sherlock's mind couldn't rest, or he might seizure from pure, uninterrupted boredom. But, she sat him down nonetheless and tried to calm him the best she could.
"I'm sure that this is all going to work out, Sherlock. And maybe Mycroft can find a home for the baby and keep tabs on the house and family and keep you updated." Assuming he wanted nothing to do with the baby other than knowing the child would be safe, Mary had spoken. The look on Sherlock's face at her words made her realize she was wrong. "You want to take the baby in?"
"I…I don't…I have no clue."
"Sherlock, this is a very big responsibility. You need to recognize that before you go running off to take in a child."
"What if it's like him. It'll be two children in a household until it moves out." John tried to lighten the mood a bit.
"It's my child…" Sherlock trailed off, dazed.
"That honestly scares me." John commented, sitting down on the other side of his friend. "Three of you, here in London."
"Sherlock, you need to think this through." Mary sighed.
"I…I'm scared." And he was crying again.
"So much for sociopath." John muttered quietly, patting the man on the back and looking over the huddled figure at his wife.
She shot him a look in return and looked back down at Sherlock.
"I know, I know."
"Who's the boy at the door, Molly?" Sherlock called from the little kitchen where he was preparing a specific science experiment involving a kidney, and eyeball, and a thumb…and maybe a creme brûlée torch.
"It's not a boy, da." The girl called back. "Sorry about him." The apology was directed at the six foot tall boy in the doorway of the room. His messy red hair was tousled all over his freckled, pale face. Green eyes shown out through the shadow his hair cast and he flashed a brilliantly white smile, keeping absolutely quiet.
"Yes it is, I see the shadow. Why don't you introduce us?"
Molly's face fell and she drew in a deep breath before motioning for the boy to follow her.
"This is Justin." She said quickly, wishing to get this over with.
"It's very nice to meet you Mr. Holmes." The boy extended a hand.
"Get that filthy hand away from me." He turned back to his brûlée-ing eyeball. The boy looked startled.
Molly tried to chuckle.
"Sorry, he gets like that with his experiments—"
"Does your mother know who you're bringing to that house when she's out?" Sherlock spun back around, locking his eyes on the young teen's green ones. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just really didn't want to touch your hands. For all I know, I have an open wound and I'm going to contract an STD from those disgusting little fingers. I don't get the fascination with…that."
"Da, stop!" Molly shrieked, eyes wide.
"I'm only noting the obvious, Molly. It really would not kill you to do the same." Sherlock frowned. "He likes…things. There's makeup on his collar, a girl could have rubbed it off onto his shirt, it could be yours—it's pale. But, it's on the inside of his collar and it matches his skin as well. There's a tiny patch on the visible part of his neck that looks like someone's gone over it with spackle. He's been…snogging with someone. I doubt it's you, he obviously hardly knows you or he'd know you're an awful prude—even when you're drunk."
His daughter made a noise of terror which matched the horrified look in Justin's eyes.
"He smells…badly and his fingernails on his right hand have two that've been hastily chewed off." Sherlock continued, without noticing or caring about the thoughts of the two teenagers in the room. "He's wearing boxer briefs, not that it matters, I just wanted to point that out because his pants are much too tight and you can see the lines. He's crossing his arms now because he's got claw marks down his chest—no, actually they're down his back. They're not from his pussycat, or maybe they are. It certainly depends on how you put it, but that puts him in the front-to-front position. I hope you didn't get her pregnant, Justin, I've been there."
There was a pause as he poked at the liver with a fork.
"I'm sorry, Justin. Molly is actually much too occupied with homework tonight to be able to keep you company while your dear mother is out."
Justin stood there for a moment, mouth agape, before turning to Molly and wishing her a hurried "good-bye" before running out the door.
"It's for the better, really. Look at his butt. There's a whole pack of those...rubbers." He sounded disgusted by the thought. "And let's not forget the mint gum he's chewing. I mean really."
Molly stared at her father, pale as a sheet.
"I am not a prude."
"Well, you certainly haven't, what do kids say now?" Truth be told, he hadn't a clue what kids said when he was her age.
"I'm not a prude because of it!"
"No you just don't find interest in it." He shrugged.
"That's not true." She denied, feeling a little confused and drained from the sudden turn the night had taken.
"Isn't it?"
She looked as if she were about to say something, and changed her mind.
"I'm going to see Jack."
"That's a good idea."