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 7
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When John was entered in Baker Street, he had failed to come up against an excited Mrs. Hudson who was coming down the stairs.
"Oh, John! How was your day?"
"Uh… well."
He had looked at Mrs. Hudson with surprised eyes. She was radiating contentment and her smile was wider than usual.
"Am I in the middle of something?" He had asked.
Mrs. Hudson had pointed to the ceiling.
"Oh, Sherlock returned from New York, he's in the living room. There are guests. I don't tell you… But – hush! – don't make noise, someone is sleeping."
Perplexed by these obscure words, John had gone upstairs.
"Sherlock? You're back?"
He entered the room, found his friend in his chair with his violin in hand.
"Hi, John."
He took off his coat.
"How was New York?"
"Boring."
John had a smile to that answer and hung his coat on the hook next to the door. It was then that he noticed the woman's coat. He had a second stop, and then came back to Sherlock.
"Mrs. Hudson told me that we had guests."
"That's right."
"Who is she? A client?"
"One can say that," Sherlock mysteriously replied, looking toward the kitchen.
John followed his gaze and froze.
"Good evening, Doctor Watson."
Irene Adler was standing in the doorway. John looked at her, speechless.
"Irene Adler?"
"She needed my help," Sherlock explained. "The text from New York, it was her."
John remained silent, and then decided it would be smart to sit on the sofa.
"But you were dead," he said in a toneless voice.
"This is actually what everyone thought. But Mr. Holmes is a resourceful man."
John turned his head to spontaneously Sherlock. He began to understand…
"So, the case in Europe, it wasn't for real?"
When Mycroft had told him the new, the supposed death of The Woman was two months ago. He only could see that dark matter in Europe to coincide with this date. Especially since Sherlock had returned strangely silent, that John had found particularly unusual.
"You wasn't in Europe, right?"
The silence of his friend was eloquent enough. John let out a tired laugh.
"Typical of you," he smiled. "You will definitely never learn to talk to me."
He returned to Irene Adler.
"Anything else I should know? For that matter, you don't have one or two children in hiding, just to complete the picture?"
He was surprised to feel the atmosphere suddenly tense. A note on the violin snapped. Then he heard Mrs. Hudson up the stairs with new drinks, and he remembered: "Don't make noise, someone is sleeping."
He felt his face sag while Mrs. Hudson passed them while chatting.
"The poor little darling was dead tired," she explained. "We must say we don't take very long at this age. It's a pity you have not done earlier, John, you have met him, he's so cute! While the portrait of his father!"
John froze, looking at Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and Irene Adler in turn.
"John?"
He pointed a hesitating finger in their direction.
"No…"
He turned to Sherlock.
"You… and Irene Adler…"
"I leave you to your own deductions, John."
Irene Adler bit her lip. She was beginning to understand Mycroft warnings on Sherlock's inability to make prudent and thoughtful explanations. Seeing that John broke down more, she went and sat on the sofa next to him.
"What Mr. Holmes is clearly unable to explain correctly, is that I'm not dead in Karachi. Mr. Holmes was able to intervene at the last minute to save me. Everything has been done to you all believe in my death, but in reality, I was a refugee in New York. Unfortunately, my former enemies have finally found my record, the reason I'm back here."
"Okay."
He had at least understood half of the story.
"And… uh…"
Irene Adler glanced quickly toward Sherlock's room.
"He is currently asleep, I am therefore unable to present."
"He? It's a boy?"
"Yes. He's three years old. And to anticipate your next question… Yes, Mr. Holmes is the father."
John turned his head towards Sherlock who continued to calmly tease his violin, deep in thought, as if the conversation didn't concern him.
"But…," John hesitated. "How…?"
"Doctor Watson, don't make me teach you your job."
"Okay."
John returned to Irene Adler, pointing the finger at his friend.
"He knew?"
"In his defence, no."
"How did he react?"
"How would you have reacted?"
John leaned back against the sofa. He was tired. It had been a hard day's work. He returned with ideas of tea and a good night's sleep. Instead, he learned the survival of Irene Adler, saved by Sherlock from Pakistanis terrorists. That they had intimate relationships. And Irene Adler was taken to New York with a son who was three years old now. And all these people were gathered here today. A normal day at Baker Street.
John looked back at Sherlock, who continued calmly tease his violin, although a confused look crossed with uncertainty.
John understood the strange sensation that procured the new hidden son. But why his friend persisted it to be as inept when it came to signify events of such importance? On his return from the dead, John had to mobilize all his understanding and his dedication to digest the news. Because there was one area in which Sherlock was zero, it was the tact. He wanted to understand the chronic sociopathy of his friend, but he always had trouble with this also chronic mania he had to never handle it with kid gloves.
So The Woman was alive. And she was in Baker Street. With their son.
He stood up.
"I'm going to bed," he announced.
He walked up the stairs.
"Doctor Watson…"
"Good night."
And he disappeared upstairs. The door to his room was closed, and there was silence.
Irene Adler turned to Sherlock, who hadn't moved.
"I understand now the prudence of your brother, for your explanations. You haven't spared him."
"John is an adult of average intelligence. He just needs time."
"Yes, he reminds me of someone I know."
And she got to her feet, lips pursed.
"Good night, Mr. Holmes."
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John got up the next day as he didn't even sleep. Fortunately, he didn't start work early. He pulled himself out of bed and dragged himself to the bathroom. A cold shower completed to wake him up.
Sherlock was absent. John figured he had already left for chasing villains. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
"Hello, Doctor Watson," a voice said behind him.
He turned. Irene Adler was sitting at the dining room table. On the chair to her side, exceeded a small mass of brown curls.
John paused for a time. The meeting of the night before came suddenly back to him in memory: Irene Adler, living in Baker Street with her son.
She was draped in Sherlock dressing gown, loose hair. She smiled softly at him.
The kettle rang, making him almost startled, and he poured his tea before approaching the coffee table. Irene Adler wiped a small mouth smeared with jam.
"Misha?" She asked softly. "Say hello to the gentleman."
A little head looked up at him.
"Hello, sir!"
John nearly dropped his mug of tea. Irene Adler had to hurry up to offer him her chair.
No doubt, this little boy had to be Sherlock's. It was the same hair, the same face, the same lips, the same skin complexion. Only the eyes were different, a blue less nuanced. John easily guessed that it must be the colour of his mother's eyes. He wasn't very tall, but showed signs of a future slimness. He wore a white shirt and black pants. To John, it was like coming face to face with a miniature replica of Sherlock.
He ate a piece of toast by putting jam on his fingers. Before him, on the table, was a glass of milk and an orange.
John looked at Irene Adler who had put two protective hands on his shoulders.
"So it's true?" He asked.
She nodded cautiously.
"Listen, Doctor Watson," she began, "I wanted to apologize for last night. Mr Holmes was not the most delicate and…"
"You can tell."
John swallowed nervously a sip of his tea.
"He lied to me. Once more. When will this prat finally decide to trust me?"
His voice rose, warmed, but aware of the presence of the boy, he didn't rise too high.
"That he never knew he was a father, I agree, but why didn't he tell me anything about you? He made me lie to him about your fate, knowing exactly what I was saying wasn't true. Can you believe this?"
Irene Adler agreed with him. But somehow, she understood the position of Sherlock.
"People who nearly killed me four years ago were terrorists," she defended. "They wanted to decapitate me. This is to tell you that they are not the kind of people to embarrass principles. If they knew you knew, they would have used any means to make you talk."
"And you think I don't know that? I've been in Afghanistan, so I know a little about the issue. I know I sound like an old guy; I look ridiculous with my jumpers, that the profession of doctor is not the most exciting. But I'm also a former soldier. I was on the battlefield, I held a gun, and I have repeatedly proven that I still knew how to use it. I can't count the amount of times I had to put my life aside for him, the amount of times I had to give up my life, just because he needed me. And this is how he thanks me."
A lump rose in his throat, growling. Yes, he was angry. Angry at being once again sidelined when he could be useful. Maybe he wouldn't have done or changed much, but sharing secrets, wasn't that what friends do, usually?
A ring at the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Spontaneously, John and Irene Adler exchanged glances. Obviously, neither of them were expected to visit. It couldn't be Mrs. Hudson, they could hear her doing the dishes. And Mycroft would be announced.
John decided to take the lead.
"Stay here, I'll see."
He went downstairs to realize that Mrs. Hudson had anticipated. She closed the door, puzzled.
"Who was it?" John asked.
"No idea," Mrs. Hudson admitted, "there was nobody. Just that."
And she showed in her hand a large white envelope. Above, in printing characters, two initials: I.A.
John began to feel up on his back a little shiver of alarm. He took the envelope and opened it without thinking.
"John, seriously!" Mrs. Hudson protested. "Since when do you open other people's mail?"
"She and her son have been threatened, Mrs. Hudson, I think it gives me certain privileges."
"Threatened? Oh, my God, the poor boy!"
And she rushed upstairs.
John had finished opening the envelope. Inside, there was a picture. It represented Sherlock, Irene Adler and Misha, obviously in an airport, but he was unable to say which one.
Misha's face was marked with a cross in red felt.
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