"So, when were you going to tell me?" Sherlock asked, trying to be polite, but at the same time trying not to scream in frustration.
"Tell you what?" wondered Molly, hastily trying to dissect a brain with one hand while holding her mobile phone with the other.
"Hmm, Molly, I really don't know. Maybe something to do with the fact that our short-lived relationship ended thirteen years ago because you were pregnant?"
"What? Okay, how the hell did you know that?" Molly grimaced. This was all of her fears confirmed. He knew now. After all of those steps she took, after all the trouble she went to to stop him finding out. And now he had succeeded.
He ignored her. He wasn't going to get to that bit, just yet. There were still points he needed to make. "Or, perhaps I have a twelve year old daughter I've never met?" Until now, he added silently.
"Oh god, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. But how do you know?"
"And, possibly she's just like me in so many aspects? And she just barged into my house and told me all this now? Wouldn't that make anyone a little bit angry? That's the problem with you, Molly. You just don't think!"
"I... Erm..." Molly's mouth began to open and close uselessly like a goldfish, but no sound was coming out. Too late, anyway. Sherlock had hung up angrily, and he was now kicking boxes around the room. John held him as he threw his little tantrum, whispering reassurances in his ear and gently rocking him back and forth. Eventually calming down, Sherlock turned to look at his boyfriend. "Sorry, for that..." he mumbled, embarrassed at losing control in front of his boyfriend. But the look on John's face wasn't anger, or even pity. It was a caring, worried expression that only the person who loves you most can portray.
"It's okay, Sherlock. Anyone else would've reacted the same."
Sherlock pouted. "But, I'm not just anyone. Am I?" he asked.
John considered this for a moment, then looked him straight in the eye. "No, Sherlock. You're right. You're not just anyone."
There was a silence in the flat for a little while. Both of them were appreciating the quiet companionship, although still rather shaken by the whirlwind entrance of Sherlock's daughter. It felt odd saying that, since John had never viewed Sherlock as being at all paternal. He had even mocked some parents in the street on a few occasions, and said that he generally didn't have any time for most children. With the exception of the "clever ones," but that went without saying. Not that there were very many clever children, other than the child they had just seen. If he was honest, John wasn't even sure she was clever, he had only listened to her for all of ten minutes. But, if Sherlock had deduced that, he wasn't one to argue with a brilliant mind like his.
"What are you going to do, Sherlock?" Finally he asked the question that had been preying on his mind since she left, and was eating away at him inside. There didn't seem to be an answer, until John realised that Sherlock was fast asleep on the sofa, curled up with his knees under his chin. He sighed and tucked him in, and tip-toed over to his laptop. Spending some time mulling over what to write on his latest blog post, he got distracted by the internet. It was impossible for him to concentrate after everything that had happened today. Did this mean that he was a father too? Would he hold a responsibility for a twelve year old girl, more importantly a twelve year old girl he had never really got to know? Would this create a closer or more strained relationship with Sherlock? All this uncertainty was terrible!
Sherlock's sleep was disturbed by unsettling dreams about his daughter completely leaving him, forever lonely in the absence of her. He didn't realize how much he needed her until he had finally met her, out of the blue and extremely unexpected. When he awoke, he was coated in the familiar sweat of a nightmare, and the blanket was tangled around his limbs. He checked the time, it was seven in the morning. He had apparently slept for over sixteen hours. On the plus side, Mycroft would be in his office. He quickly dressed, leaving John asleep with his laptop on his chest.
The cab to Mycroft's office in town was a short journey distance-wise, but it was London in the morning rush hour. It ended up taking about half an hour, just for a couple of streets. Sherlock resolved to walk more in future.
Mycroft's office was full of clutter, broken flotsam and jetsam scattered around the room like glitter in an art workshop. His desk was piled high with files on what could possibly be every single human being in the United Kingdom, living or dead. Mycroft himself was reading one of them, accentuating important points with a broad orange highlighter. When he looked up, Sherlock was balancing precariously on the edge of his desk, staring him down. A warm smile graced Mycroft's face.
"Ah, Sherlock! Such a pleasant… Surprise." As he finished, Sherlock began to look even more angry. His face was screwed up, and his hands were shaking.
"How can I help?" Mycroft queried.
"I'll tell you how you can help," Sherlock spat in fury. "Right now, we need to talk. And I want you to tell me the truth."
Mycroft went pale. "You know, don't you?"
Sherlock nodded.
a/n: ooh hello cliffie. sorry for the not regular updates, i'm back to school now and it's just uggghhh studying. so that's why my writing hasn't been too fabulous.
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