The next day marked the third day with Beatrice. Sherlock asked Mrs. Hudson to stay that day, but only help when he absolutely needed it (which wasn't so hard after observing her and her techniques for three days).
Sherlock was an awkward father. He wasn't into the whole "baby talk" thing or into teaching his daughter tedious nursery rhymes and simple songs. All boring; Sherlock would be driven up the wall with all the mediocre crap. He did tolerate, however, a white stuffed bunny that Mrs. Hudson got for her. It was simple, white, and soft, and Beatrice enjoyed putting its ears in her mouth. God, she was adorable.
This morning, she was lying down on the bed with Sherlock, grabbing onto his fingers with her small, chubby fist. He spoke to her in low tones, but in the usual sentence fluency and grammar he usually used. And, for the first time since she came to the flat, she smiled for him.
Sherlock's eyebrows raised when she smiled. Beatrice was sweet and innocent; if Sherlock raised her, she would soon become a bright, intellectual, witty young woman.
He remembered once he heard Mrs. Hudson talking about her son, Austin, with Mrs. Turner.
"They grow up so fast," she had said. "Now he's all grown up and living on his own. Sometimes I wish he was still small like he was when we first brought him home."
"How old is your son now?" Mrs. Turner had asked.
"Around Sherlock's age. They went to the same school, yet they were never friends like I was with his mother."
"So you knew Sherlock as a child?"
"Of course, although he hates to admit it. He always tells people the story of how he ensured my husband's death."
Suddenly, Sherlock heard the doorbell ring. He knew (or at least hoped he knew) who was arriving today. He had sent an email to her, saying:
There are many things I wish to discuss with you. Meet me at 221B Baker Street at 11:30am. I have Violet's daughter, in case you wanted to see her.
SH
Mrs. Hudson led the woman upstairs. She had her strawberry-blonde hair up in a ponytail, wearing a business suit with a blazer and skirt. She was a very professional-looking woman, sitting down with her legs crossed, waiting patiently for the man who invited her here.
Sherlock walked out of his bedroom, Beatrice on one arm. The woman looked up at the both of them with content.
"So," the woman said, "you did keep her, not leaving her on the street."
"Did you think I would, Ms. Carlisle?" Sherlock asked.
"I had a feeling. And please, call me Sandy."
"Right then." Sherlock sat on the chair, placing Beatrice in her little basket that Violet had left her in. He looked at Sandy, and began to observe her: manager at a large business; used to be in a lot of stress, but not anymore; bisexual; drinks coffee; used to smoke; on a diet; runs in the morning; can be aggressive...
"So you called me here for a reason?" Sandy asked. "I understand that you're the father of Violet's child, and if this is about where she went, then I don't know. I'm just glad you took care of the baby."
"You have some idea," Sherlock replied, "about what happened to her. Judging by what I deduced, it seems like you might have driven her away."
"Excuse me? I didn't drive her away!"
"Then why did she disappear? Because I have a reason to believe that you were irritable. Trying to quit cold turkey is hard; I know from experience. You became not only irritable, but aggressive. After she had the baby, it got worse, because you were asked to participate and be responsible. Stressed and irritable, not a great combination, Ms. Carlisle. So why don't you tell me why she ran away?"
Sandy was frozen. She dare not speak or move, and Sherlock recognized that look she had on her face, the look of defeat. Sherlock gave Sandy a grin. Then, she finally sighed, ready to speak.
"You're right," she said, "I was irritable and stressed. But no way did I physically hurt Violet or her baby, I swear!"
"I believe you on that," Sherlock replied. "I'm not infallible, I just made an assumption. Continue."
"Violet was a sweet, innocent woman, and I would kill myself before I beat her. We met two years ago, when I saw her singing in a cafe in Whitechapel. But, after about three months of knowing her, she came down with some cancer in her throat. I paid for the procedure to take place, to remove the cancer, but she could never speak or sing ever again.
"After her grandmother died, she was given a large amount of money. I told her to save it for something she really wanted. About twelve months ago, Violet made the decision to raise a baby with me. I didn't really like the idea, and I still don't think it was one of the wisest decisions. I hate kids, but Violet had to be so selfish and stubborn, so she did so, whether I liked it or not. She took me to the hospital to have it done, though. I still can't believe she chose you to be the father.
"After having the baby, I found out from her doctor that she was getting really sick. They said she only had so long to live, they didn't tell me specifically how long. They told me this a month ago, right before she ran away. The next day, she was gone."
"Explain the note."
"It was a note for you, of course. I wrote it, though. I can't take care of a baby. I'm too busy, and I hate kids."
"And what makes you think I'm any better?"
"I don't know! I panicked. I kept the baby for a month, and I couldn't take it! I had to find you, because I thought you would be better than me!"
"You would have been better than I could ever be."
"No! No I couldn't! Don't you dare put that on my shoulders!"
"Do you even care about Violet?"
"Of course I care! I've been trying to locate her for the past month! She's dying, Sherlock, or maybe already dead! You barely know who the hell she is! I've heard a lot about you, Sherlock Holmes, and I'm really curious as to why you think you care so much about a woman you don't even know!"
Sandy was practically shouting at Sherlock, as was he to her. The argument made the baby get upset and begin to cry. Suddenly, the argument stopped. The two looked over at the baby, and Sherlock was the first to take action. He picked up the baby, held her against his chest, and tried to hush her. Sandy just stood there in her guilt as Sherlock tried to calm the baby.
"Please don't cry," Sherlock murmured to Beatrice. "It's going to be alright. I'm sorry."
After about a minute of continuous bawling, Sherlock became concerned (murmuring to the baby, "Please shut up already. Daddy has work to do!"), but she finally calmed down. He continued to hold her throughout the rest of his session with Sandy.
"Mr. Holmes," Sandy said, "I think it would be best if you help me find Violet. She only has so long to live-"
"I have been informed that the Scotland Yard has begun a search for her."
"She's been gone for a month. Who knows where she could be?"
"I don't know."
"I think we're done here, Mr. Holmes." Sandy grabbed her bag and began to head towards the stairs. But then she stopped to turn around, looking longingly at Sherlock and his daughter.
"You see that?" she said. "I could never do that. I was never able to make Violet's baby feel secure like you do. She really likes you... What do you call her, anyway? Violet never had the chance to give her a name, or at least she didn't tell me the name."
"Beatrice."
"Odd name for this century. Then again, your name is Sherlock. I guess I shouldn't judge too harshly... It's a beautiful name. Violet would've chosen something like that, too.
"That's the only reason I'm letting you handle the baby, Sherlock, for Violet. In my opinion, I would never trust the likes of you to take care of the child, or any child for that matter."
And with that, Sandy Carlisle left the flat.
