So, this is where you will start to decide on liking or hating this story. Chapter 2 ready to run. Let's go!
Chapter Two: The explanation
John Watson did not remember fainting in Lestrade's office. What he did know is that one second he was staring in amazement at Sherlock Holmes standing just a few feet away from himself, and then a grey mist had swirled before his eyes, and when it cleared, he found his collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of alcohol upon his lips. Sherlock was bending over his chair with a small metal hip flask in hand.
"For God's sake Sherlock, you can't give him brandy!" He recognised Lestrade's voice immediately.
"Well it worked, didn't it? See, he's opening his eyes." Even after three years, John realised whose voice that was.
"Sherlock!" He cried, grabbing the taller man's upper arm. "Is it really you? You're really alive?" He paused, staring at Sherlock's face, then; "Oh God. I'm bloody hallucinating." He tried to scramble to his feet, but Sherlock held him back.
"John, calm down! You're not hallucinating!"
"Yes I am, you're dead. You died three years ago. You jumped off the roof of Saint Bart's" He continued struggling against Sherlock's grip.
"I faked my death, John!" Suddenly, John stopped attempting to free himself. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide with astonishment, then;
"What in God's name possessed you to do that?" Sherlock sighed in annoyance.
"Because of a certain three gunmen armed and ready to fire at you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade." There was a long silence.
"So, you're telling me that if you hadn't jumped off a building, we would have been killed?" Interjected Lestrade. There was a pause.
"Yes." Mrs Hudson, whose ferocious tears had only just abated, burst out crying once again, and threw herself at Sherlock, holding him in a tight hug.
"You stupid boy! We're not worth it!"
"Erm… Actually… I might be?" Said Lestrade, ever-so-slightly irritated. In one morning, his world had been turned upside down. A man he once assumed was dead was now quite the opposite, an elderly woman had said that he wasn't worth the clothes he stood in, and there was a grey wig and pieces of plastic stage make-up littering his new desk. Either he was having a nervous breakdown due to the new case he was working on, or he was having the worse day imaginable. At least he was slightly reassured by Sherlock's next comment.
"Don't be ridiculous Mrs Hudson. Lestrade is quite right. You are."
Suddenly, a phone rang out of Sherlock's pocket. The corner of his lip twitched slightly, and he slid the Blackberry out of his coat, and held it to his ear.
"Hello, Dear." He said, his ice blue eyes twinkling with laughter, "…Yes… Yes… Well I'm sorry, Dear, but it was necessary… Why? Why on earth do you think? They need to get over each shock one at a time…" His conversation carried on for a while in this fashion, and in the meantime, John was able to get a proper look at the world's only ex consulting detective. His hair was still the same unruly, jet black curls, his eyes the same crystal blue, but there seemed something different about him now. Something in the way he held himself. He seemed more relaxed, and less wired in his posture, as if all the worries in his whole life had melted away in that one horrific step from the top of the building three years ago.
And then, in a flash, John noticed something new. Sherlock was holding the phone to his right ear, his left side facing the rest of the group; in this position, John could see an astonishing thing. There was a thin, gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. He remembered an old rhyme from somewhere.
Third finger, left hand…
"Alright… Alright… You can come up now… Yes… Yes I do believe they would like to be reacquainted with you… You're halfway there… of course you are…"
… That's where you place the Wedding band!
Sherlock ended the call, and dropped the phone into his pocket. He then looked around the room with an amused smile playing about his lips.
"Sherlock… you're finger… it's…"
"It's what John? Replied Sherlock, his eyes opened with wide eyed innocence. He looked at all his fingers frantically, almost comically. "John, what is the matter with my finger? Which finger?" The rest of the room was now completely befuddled, staring at Sherlock's hands, attempting to understand what had John so worried.
"Sherlock… your third finger… on your left hand… you have… your wearing…"
"Oh! I see what you're getting at!" exclaimed Sherlock. He was no longer able to contain his mirth, and that boyish grin had sprung to his lips. One by one, the rest of the room understood what the Doctor had been trying to say, and they now gawped, open-mouthed, at the small, gold band on his finger.
"You're talking about my Wedding ring!" cried the dark haired man.
At which point, the door to Lestrade's office swung open, and in strode a woman, carrying a small toddler in her arms. A woman with dark hair, and a beautiful face.
A woman who was also supposed to be dead.
John Watson gaped, as the ex-dominatrix sauntered into the room and came to a standstill next to Sherlock.
"May I have the pleasure of introducing my wife, Irene Holmes." Said Sherlock, beaming triumphantly at the small group of people. There was complete silence for a moment. Then, John finally focused on the small girl in Irene's arms. She was blond, with soft, curling ringlets falling to her petit waist. She suddenly turned her head to look at him.
And Doctor John Watson looked into eyes of the same icicle blue as that of his old friend.
"Sherlock." He mumbled, too shocked to do anything more.
"Yes, John?" Grinned the tall man lounging on Lestrade's desk.
"Why does the little girl have your exact eye colour?"
"That, John, is my other little surprise. I must also introduce to you all, my daughter. Her name is Sarah Elizabeth Holmes, or Sally, as my wife likes to call her."
Mrs Hudson dropped into the arms of Lestrade in a dead faint. Lestrade, for his part, didn't know whether to be happy for Sherlock, or miserable for his own situation.
After endeavouring to arouse her, Mrs. Hudson eventually awoke, and Lestrade called for someone to assist her out of the office. Sally Donovan, her curiosity aroused, poked her head around the office door, and screamed. Anderson came running, and came to a standstill just a little way behind her, mouth hanging open.
"Yes Donovan, Anderson. You perceive that a man you once thought dead is quite the opposite. Your reactions are normal, if somewhat annoying. Your affair seems to have lasted – oh, no. Anderson's divorced, and you're living together now, how nice. Toddle off back to your one bedroomed flat now; you've served your purpose." At which point, he slammed the door in their faces. He turned on one heel back to the room, then thought better of it, and twisted back to the door, swinging it open. Donovan and Anderson were stood exactly as they had been before. "By the way, Sally, you may want to take a test when you go home." He went to fling shut the door once again, but Donovan seemed to have recovered, and slammed her hand against the wood. She stormed into the room, and clasped handcuffs around the taller man's thin wrists. Sherlock, for his part, went along with it.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for many crimes including murder, forgery, blackmail, and other countless offences –"
"- And insulting police officers!" Interjected Anderson
"Yes, and that. You have the right to remain silent; however anything you say may be taken and used against you."
"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to carry on with this Sergeant Donovan." Said a smooth voice from the doorway. Everyone stopped and turned to stare at Mycroft Holmes, who stood regally, gazing in on the scene ahead of him as if glancing at a painting in an art gallery. "I believe you may be mistaken in your opinion of my younger sibling. Allow me to inform you that a damn nuisance he maybe, a fraud he is not. Please release him, and go about your business."
"And what right do you have to tell me I can't arrest him?"
"May I interject?" Irene had Sally on her knee, and was watching with great amusement. "My husband, you may like to know, is not a fraud, nor has he ever been. He is a genius, and I find it highly entertaining that you believe the words of a known villain to that of the British Government and his brother."
"Wait… Did you just say husband?" exclaimed Anderson.
"Sally, just take the cuffs and leave. You too Anderson." Snapped Lestrade. The two officers stared in amazement, before being shunted out of the room by Mycroft.
"I'm sorry." Murmured Molly. "I'm going to go back to work now. I've had more than enough shocks for one day." She rose to her feet slowly, and John went to open the door for her.
"Give our love to Laila, will you Molly?" He murmured.
"Of course, John, I always do." Molly smiled at him, and left the room.
"How did you know I was back Mycroft?" inquired Sherlock, rubbing his wrists slightly.
"Sherlock, you cannot have been that withdrawn from the world that you have forgotten the invention of CCTV?"
"Not at all Mycroft, I just wondered why it took you so long to act on it." The elder Holmes bowed his head slightly, and left; Lestrade following him out.
"So how are you alive then?" sighed John, addressing Irene.
"I went over to Karachi, and stopped the execution in its tracks. A fairly simple procedure, if I recall." Replied Sherlock, airily. There were now only four people in the room. The three Holmes' and John. John now had a closer look at Sally. She was a beautiful child, her ice blue eyes looking up at him with almost intellectual scrutiny. She was dressed in a powder blue dress, with little matching pumps and white tights.
"Well, it's safe to say that she is definitely your daughter Sherlock. One question. Why is she blond? You both have dark hair."
"It's called a genetic mutation. She did have hair the exact same colour as Sherlock when she was born."
"How old is she?"
"Almost 18 months old. Quite advanced for her age." Sherlock joined the conversation at last. John scoffed.
"It would be hard for her not to be, considering her parents. Can she talk yet?" Sherlock just looked at her inquiringly.
"Fairly well." She replied. John jumped.
"That… That… Well, that… Is very… Very advanced."
"She hasn't completely mastered French yet, but she's getting there." Responded Sherlock, with that childish grin on his face.
Okay. The next chapter will be in 13½ years' time.
Sally is not named after Donovan, but Irene's mother. I looked for ages for a suitable name. She was originally Sally, until I remembered Donovan, then I looked at the family tree of Arthur Conan Doyle for inspiration. However, as much as I liked many of the names, they didn't fit what I had in mind.
After looking also at Irish names (Sherlock is apparently Irish) I eventually decided to keep Sally and use Irene's mother as explanation. In my mind, Sherlock and Irene argued over her name for some time before Sherlock caved. Sally was at one point Annette, as that was the name of Conan Doyle's daughter with his favourite wife.
Elizabeth is the middle name of Arthur Conan Doyle's favourite wife, Jean, and is also the middle name of my cousin. I decided also that it would be Sherlock's mother, and that would be his condition on letting Irene win.
Keep reading,
ReaderMagnifique.