Author's note:

Sherlock is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

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Chapter 3

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The time seemed to be down. The second hand realized a complete revolution, and it seemed to last an hour. Space froze; the sound went out, producing a muffled noise.

He was looking, and he was frozen.

Sherlock was unable to move. He was unable to speak. He was unable to think. Sitting on the sofa, facing the door, he watched, motionless, as if struck by lightning.

Before him, alongside an embarrassed domestic, a little thing was moving. Knee-high to a grasshopper, wearing a small white shirt and little shorts black suit, small polish shoes. A little face pierced with blue eyes and topped with a cloud of dark curls. A small wooden train was lying on its side at the end of a string. Sherlock had fleetingly the feeling he was rushing to get it back on its wheels.

But he didn't move, he couldn't make the smallest movement.

Irene Adler rushed to the maid and Sherlock started to get out of the torpor in which he sank inexorably.

"I am sincerely sorry, ma'am," he heard the maid saying. "But he waved claiming you. I told him that you had a visitor, but he refused to listen."

"All is well, Kaitlin," Irene Adler assured, "this is nothing."

Then she crouched against the small appearance and took his hands.

"I'm with a visitor, my dear," she whispered to him, "you can't disturb me when I'm with a visitor. Kaitlin will take you into the living room on the first floor, I'll see you when I'm done."

She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, and let the maid take him.

The silence that followed was so tense that it threatened to break at any moment. Irene Adler stood where she was, almost unable to watch Sherlock in front, who hadn't moved from the sofa. Pale and speechless, he continued to look where was found to be small figure for several seconds before.

It was Irene Adler, who found the first force to break the silence.

"I'm sorry…," she apologized.

"Is it what…," Sherlock began with a toneless voice.

"What you think?"

He raised his eyes, eloquent. She lowered her own.

"Yes," she answered then.

Sherlock didn't answer, petrified. His face was turned again toward the door, still occupied by the remains of his memory. Irene Adler came to sit down on the sofa, with the guilt of one convict to death.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to notice his presence and turned his head toward her.

"How…?" He managed to articulate.

Irene Adler didn't raise the awkwardness of the question. She smiled at him carefully.

"Remember Karachi?"

And Sherlock was suddenly brought back four years earlier.

Of course, he remembered Karachi. He had learned through his own channels the news of the capture of Irene Adler by Pakistanis. He had almost missed the information. Inventing the excuse of a case in Europe, he rushed there. He had found the camp, neutralized the executioner and took his place. He had been brought before his convict veiled in black, who hadn't recognized him until they gave her the last favour for a last message. He knew it would be him she would try to contact. He had kept his phone, which had issued its characteristic bell as a signal.

Then he had neutralized the insurgents, but not without difficulties, and had torn Irene Adler scripts. He had stolen a vehicle and rushed to town, spreading the camp became motionless behind him. He had left the car in a street and finished the walk way to a luxury hotel frequented by many tourists. He chose this starting point, certain that nobody would think to look at a place of pleasure. He brought Irene Adler in his suite, had closed the door behind them, and the events had then lost control.

However, there had been nothing out of control in the way they were suddenly entwined. They had had a momentum, bewildered, but which seemed like a logical extension of what happened. It was everything they said, all they had done, everything they were. There had been no forgiveness; exchanged words were no longer needed. Forgetting the camp, the insurgents, Belgravia, Moriarty, the world, they celebrated a one they had thought lost forever.

During the three days that followed, they hadn't left the hotel. Then the fourth morning, a package was submitted to their attention at the reception. Inside, passport, visa, plane tickets and a bank account number. Irene Adler realized that their paths would separate there.

She remembered her departure from Jinnah International Airport, torn between the desire to stay with him and to preserve her life. But she had no choice. Sherlock nevertheless assured her that he would keep her phone, and she shouldn't hesitate a second if she had any problems. She was mounted into the plane, heartbroken, and assured her stopover in Doha. It was during this second flight that the first dizziness had appeared, accompanied by severe nausea. The hostesses had simply thought she was suffering from air sickness, but as a precaution had called for assistance. Picked up at her arrival at JFK and brought to a medical service airport, it was by the voice of a brave nurse that she learned she was pregnant.

The new brought tears in her eyes. Transported with emotion, she began to cry spontaneously, blessing this priceless gift. Because she realized that despite the distance, Sherlock would always be with her. And when, for the first time, she set foot on the New York floor, she knew she would come to get out, she was determined to do so. For their child.

Unfortunately, today it was this child who was threatened, pushing her to call a phone number she thought she had forgotten.

"I had no choice," she explained with a tremor in his voice. "I could still tolerate threats on my person, but when they started to threaten my son, I didn't hesitate for a second."

Sherlock heard her without really listening, the colours slowly returning to his cheeks. The shock began to wear off, but the vision of the little boy in front of the door continued to hover before his eyes like a bad fog. Adler Irene leaned forward anxiously.

"Mr Holmes?" She asked in a soft voice.

But she knew too well that nothing would be so simple. They didn't see each other for four years, and she made him come, to see him facing that news. She knew she would have told him, but she would have preferred to do it in time and with her own words. But the sudden appearance of the boy had taken this luxury.

She looked at Sherlock, who still seemed a prey to emotion. She hesitated, bit her lip, and then decided to give it all out:

"Maybe… would you want to see him?"

He looked at her. She thought for a second that he was angry and showed a surge of panic. But the situation required her to take things in hand.

"I understand the shock it can be, and I apologize sincerely. But perhaps it would be better for everyone, whether you are at least knowledge."

Sherlock decided nothing. He just got up, buttoning his jacket with an expressionless face. Irene Adler took his attitude as assent and stood up in turn.

"I'll take you there."

And she turned to leave the room. Sherlock followed in her footsteps, almost automatically.

They went upstairs, and Irene Adler led him up a double opening onto a large living room door.

"He's here," she shuddered.

She turned to him and looked at him straight in the eye.

"Know that nothing obliges you to see him if you don't want to."

But Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes were focused on the area of the room before him.

He walked into the lounge. On the carpet, surrounded by a sofa and two chairs, the little boy was playing with his train, rolling it around him. He still had the curves of a child of his age, but his figure showed obvious signs of a future slimness. His eyes were blue, but lighter than his. In contrast, the mass of brown loops could only come from Sherlock. He also noticed the shape of the lips, modeled on his own, as well as the remarkably clear complexion of his skin.

He watched him play at a reasonable distance, motionless.

"What's his name?" He finally asked.

Irene Adler, lagged, couldn't conceal a smile.

"Sherlock," she answered, and he turned his head toward her. "Sherlock Hamish Adler."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Hamish?" He repeated.

"Yes," Irene Adler said approaching. "I chose to trust the Doctor Watson."

He couldn't stop the memories arise in his mind: "John Hamish Watson. Just if you're looking for baby names. "

"You have sense of humour," he admitted.

"Thank you, especially since it's the name that earned him his nickname."

Sherlock looked up at her with questioning eyes.

"One of his first nurses was dyslexic," she explained. "She pronounced "Hamish" upside down, calling him "Misha". We realized that this was the name he responded to, and it stayed."

Sherlock didn't react to the story. His eyes stayed focused on the boy on the carpet.

"How old is he, exactly?"

"He will be four years old on April 26. This is a lovely little boy; I try to educate him as best I can. He's a bit stubborn, and I think it runs in the family, but he's very clever."

Sherlock lowered his eyes again on the boy - Misha - who played on the carpet, his mind unconsciously making the calculation. April 26. The conception therefore went back to a period between August and September. A cold fist repressed his stomach. Karachi…

Irene Adler watched the scene without trying to intervene. Then the little Misha seemed to notice their presence and looked up at them.

Sherlock plunged into this light blue look that was definitely his mother. The boy dropped his toy, stood up and faced him.

"Hello, sir," he chirped.

He had a small thin voice, but remarkably well placed for his age. Sherlock heard him, looked at him. In his head, chaotically hustled his knowledge of genetics, and various deductions passed before his eyes. Misha came to him, smiling innocently.

"My name is Sherlock, sir."

And he stood, face up, no doubt expecting a response from the unknown man in front of him.

Sherlock tensed, his lips slightly crisped. He couldn't remove his eyes of this little face that was frighteningly familiar.

"What's your name, sir? The boy insisted.

Sherlock held his breath. His shoulders were painfully stiff.

"Sherlock," so he mouthed.

Misha's face suddenly lit up. He lifted his finger in his direction.

"Sherlock?"

"Tut! Tut!" Irene Adler intervened. "Misha, you don't show people the finger."

But he wasn't listening. He looked at Sherlock with a kind of awe bordering on ecstasy. Sherlock knew the joy he must have felt to meet someone with the same name as him. If this little boy could only know…

In a move that he didn't identify as his, Sherlock mechanically stroked his hair, and then turned his head to Irene Adler. She had remained silent on the sidelines. He walked past her and left the room.

"Mr. Holmes!" She called.

He paused on the landing, she walked over to him and approached enough to be heard in a low voice.

"I'm sorry about all this. I wanted to tell you, but I didn't want you to learn it so quickly."

Sherlock looked at her. Not a muscle of his face flinched.

"I ask nothing," she whispered, "only your help."

He didn't answer. Irene Adler had to make a considerable effort to keep her mouth twisting as a result of despair.

"Regardless of my life, Mr. Holmes, I just want to save his."

She laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of pure supplication.

"Please. I know it's unusual for me to say this, but… please. Help me save him."

Sherlock stayed mute, trying to get the last fragments of a shattered composure. He tugged at the skirts of his jacket, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Historically, it has always relied on his cool to deal with complex situations. Many interpreted it as coldness or indifference, but he had made it his second skin. It helped him to analyze things, eliminating unnecessary emotions.

Only twice, the calm had been lacking: at the Dartmoor, where he faced fear and doubt, and Irene Adler, who had violently blown hot and cold on his feelings. Twice he felt ordinary, horribly human, and he had sworn it wouldn't have a third time. And now he was here, in New York, before The Woman he hadn't seen for four years, and this little boy… He looked at her; he looked at Misha who was looking at him. He thought back to Karachi, the four years that had passed since then. And despite all the phlegm in which he was capable, he had the vague impression of no longer controling anything at all.

He looked at her. Her light blue pupils were strongly planted in his. And, without knowing why, the words suddenly came out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Do you have a passport?" He asked.

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