"With a thousand lies,
And a good disguise,
Hit 'em right between the eyes,
Hit 'em right between the eyes,
When you walk away,
Nothing more to say,
See the lightning in your eyes,
See 'em running for their lives"
-The Offspring
Lestrade had taken the odd group back to his house, which had been serving as a sort of headquarters. The immaculate counters gleam in the light, with dust covering some of the surfaces nearby.
"I'm a stranger to company," Lestrade explains with an odd chuckle, his mind flickering from thought to thought.
"S'alright," John says, knocking back another drink.
Donovan sips more delicately at hers, in an attempt to keep her mind clear. The boys, however, feel a need to drink away their troubles and their stress. The thick mystery refuses to become more probable, with hardly any clues.
"So we've got a kid," Donovan mumbles, taking a bigger gulp of her drink. She pauses for a moment, shudders slightly, and resumes her train of thought. "This kid's dad is Sherlock Holmes—something someone doesn't want us to know."
"The British Government personally wants us to get this kid back," Lestrade adds, setting down his own drink. "Heck, apparently the Bloody Queen demands it!"
John nods, thinking over all of the details. The words seem to swim in front of him, colliding with each other and bouncing away. He takes a deep breath, trying to imagine how Sherlock felt, each time he was confronted with a case. Perhaps, he can replicate the trick.
"If the Queen wants this kid back, then the kid is important to the Queen somehow," John mumbles. "Maybe a member of the Royal Family had a kid using Sherlock's sperm?"
Lestrade mulls it over for a moment, before shaking his head. The pit in John's stomach only grows, devastated at the first of many failures. The take in front of them grows more and more impossible by the minute.
"No," Lestrade says, launching into a counterargument, "The Queen would have known Addy Snell was a fake name from the start, if it was one of the Royal Family. We would have been given the real name."
"So the Queen doesn't know this kid," Donovan sighs, wiping some sweat from her brow. "Honestly, this is turning into a bit of a nightmare of a case…"
The others couldn't help but agree with her. John however grit his teeth, determined to make use of the new information. The mother, John decides, has to be a person of influence over the British Crown.
But the mother gave the wrong name—the mother doesn't want the child to be found?
Kicking Lestrade's counter, John lets out a sigh of anger. He could just imagine the phantom of Sherlock, swimming behind him, explaining that everything is so obvious. The imagined ridicule only increases his anger, and he curses violently, kicking the counter again.
Neither Lestrade nor Donovan react.
He huffs, trembling on the brink of realization.
"What if the mother didn't want us to know her kid was missing?" John blurts, hardly realizing what he said before he said it.
Lestrade looks at him, silent for a moment before breaking into a grin. "Hey!"
He claps him on the back, and Donovan's eyes begin to widen. "You know, that makes sense! The mother uses a fake name for her kid—for privacy or something like that."
"Then, she makes something happen to the kid," Lestrade continues, "Mycroft knows that the kid is missing."
"He's got connections to the Queen," John adds, feeling adrenaline flow throughout his body. His mood brightens, into a morbid euphoria, realizing that he had in fact done it. He did what he always thought only Sherlock capable of.
He almost solved a case.
"So Mycroft tells the Queen about this missing kid, makes it seem like a huge deal," Donovan says, sounding the theory out aloud. "The Queen goes along with it, starts getting everyone to search for the kid."
"But really, Mycroft mostly wants the kid found because it's his niece!" John grins, clapping Lestrade on the back and then going in to give Donovan a hug.
The three of them grin, ecstatic with their conclusion. However, the main mystery still alluded them—who used Sherlock's sperm? Who is this mystery woman? And where is Addy Snell?
The sinking realization that the girl could be dead as part of some political ploy dawns on the trio at almost the same exact time. The enthusiastic smiles are replaced with troubled frowns.
"Who?" Lestrade says, echoing Mycroft's question from earlier. "Who would take someone's sperm for blackmail?"
A face forms in front of me, shrouded with darkness. I try to put a name to it, but I am unable to. I know all too well who would try to do a game like that—but at the same time, I am dazed and confused.
The correct answer is the wrong answer; the wrong answer is the correct answer.
John creeps up the stairs of Baker Street, hoping that Mrs. Hudson won't hear him. His breathing is soft and quiet, barely disturbing the particles of dust that Sherlock held so dearly. He approaches the door to his old flat, opening it slowly.
It creeks open, unlocked.
Stepping inside, John finds himself overwhelmed with emotions. Snatches of conversations with his old friend flutter around his head, sending him spinning in circles. An enormous pain flares in his leg, causing him to collapse to the floor.
"Dammnit," John sighs, wincing as he attempts to put weight on his leg. It is no use—it's given out.
Psychosomatic limp, Sherlock's voice whispers softly from the darkness. John looks around, spotting only the phantom that haunts him constantly. He frowns, making his way over to Sherlock's desk. The clutter is extensive, but John knows the answer would be here somewhere.
"Come on, Sherlock," John mutters, shuffling through the papers. The scrawling font is like daggers, slowly dragging against his mind. He laughs softly, recalling that the brain is technically unable to feel pain.
It is something Sherlock would have said, he realized. He was all brain and no heart—John considers himself a fool sometimes for believing Sherlock could be more than just a great man. It was silly of him to have thought that Sherlock could have been a good one.
"You're kidding me," John fumes, tossing papers behind him. Eventually, the desk is bare, the freed dust particles spinning through the air.
It is not there. The wood of the desk stares up at him, with an insolence that could match Sherlock himself. John giggles a bit, looking down in misery.
"I've got to solve it all by myself," John mutters, collapsing down in his chair. The darkness of the flat is inviting, allowing his mind to drift and ponder.
Once again, he tries to be Sherlock. He tries to think of an individual who would use sperm to blackmail—to gain power.
Irene Adler comes to mind, her face looming out of the darkness, accompanied by the sounds of Sherlock's violin. She winks at him, her lips the only thing with a hint of color—blood. The rest of her is cloaked in darkness and she melts away.
"But she's dead," John says, reasoning to himself. "You can't just come back from the dead—Mycroft said she was dead, for pete's sake!"
Mycroft doesn't know everything, a voice whispered to him. Mycroft didn't know who used Sherlock's sperm.
Maybe Irene really is alive, John pondered, his chest feeling tight with the realization. It became harder and harder for him to breathe, as if ghosts were playing with his brain, whispering ideas into his ears.
"Irene Adler fakes her death," John mutters, "And she takes Sherlock's sperm. She doesn't want people to know she's alive, so there's no record that she's the mother…Mycroft doesn't know about any of this. But the child is used for blackmail."
"I misbehave," Irene's voice rang out through the darkness, though John knows it isn't real.
He stumbles to his feet, going into the kitchen for some water. He pulls out a glass, hoping that Sherlock hadn't done anything funny to it before he died. He fills it with water, halfway full, and begins to sip it slowly.
"Irene Adler is the mother of Sherlock's child," John says, speaking into the darkness of the flat.
He hopes to feel unsettled, to feel uncertain. The opposite happens—he becomes surer of it. He had eliminated the impossible. The improbable remains.
And the improbable is Irene Adler, who he thought to be dead.
"Alright, I had the boys doing overtime," Lestrade announces, sweeping into the room. His confidence is soaring as he stares at all of the records—tangible results.
John had called him late that evening, informing him that Irene Adler is the mother of the child. At Lestrade's insistence, the humble force of Scotland Yard scoured through records, looking for anyone who resembled Irene Adler in the slightest.
"If she's still alive," Donovan murmured, "And that's a big if, she'll be in here somewhere."
"Three cheers for the bureaucracy," Lestrade laughs, throwing off his coat and rubbing his hands together. "How long do you think this will take us, eh?"
"Few hours," John says, feeling strangely optimistic. Irene might be in one of these files, under a new identity, with a slightly new look to make her look different to the young office clerk.
But they would recognize her instantly—they had to.
The trio settles into work, making chitchat with each other as they go through the papers. Every now and then, a potential match is found—but alas, it is not so. Darkness floods into the room from the outside as the hours go by, and eventually, every folder has been examined.
"She's not in here, then," Lestrade sighs, his face pained.
Donovan nods dejectedly, throwing down the very last folder. "I thought for sure this would work, boss. That we were in for a break in this case at any moment."
"If we don't make much more progress than this…," Lestrade sighs heavily, "I hate to say it, but we can't just fail the Queen. She'd have our heads."
"Figuratively," Donovan interjects, "They outlawed beheading ages ago."
Lestrade chuckles, before glancing over at John. His face is pale and hollow, showing cheekbones that no one ever guessed existed. Slowly, John is beginning to look more and more like him.
At what point do the emotions vanish too? Lestrade frowns.
"I'm sure we'll find another way," Lestrade offers, clapping John on the back.
He flinches, visibly pained at the contact. Words escape Lestrade and Donovan, watching John drown in front of them, unable to make a sound. Nothing could make a difference.
"Come on, we're going to find the kid," Lestrade tries to say, the words feeling like syrupy lies in his mouth. Donovan nods, squeezing John's shoulder.
It has little to no affect. John shrugs them off, walking away from them, and out the door. It closes behind him quietly, and they stand together in silence.
"He's hurting," Donovan says, a rare tear sliding down her cheek, "Gosh, I regret the day I ever called Sherlock a freak…"
"John needed Sherlock more than Sherlock needed John," Lestrade says, summing it up in rough eloquence. "I don't think Sherlock knew it, otherwise, he never would have left John."
The elephant in the room seems to be trampling Lestrade, while Donovan remains oblivious. She nods and follows suit after John, ready to hit the streets and try to find another means of solving the case.
Lestrade is left in the room, brimming in guilt. "Sherlock Holmes is alive," he whispers for the first time.
"Sherlock Holmes is very much alive," Lestrade repeats, as if it could patch John up and bring back the smiling man he had befriended so long ago.
It is the same script as before.
Sherlock stares at the package, disturbing the mess of his latest bed. The rooms in America are rather strange—the lack of security appalled him. The package seems to have appeared out of thin air.
"Who are you?" Sherlock ponders aloud, pulling out a magnifying glass. He examines the package, handling it with gloves, searching for some sort of clue.
It is completely spotless. He realizes he'll gain nothing this way, and he carefully tears the package open. A child's toy falls into his hands. Or at least, it once was a child's toy. The head has been removed, replaced with a small skull.
"Infant," Sherlock says, muttering as he handles the skull carefully. "European origin—female. Hasn't been dead long."
He sets down the doll, taking in the rest of its details. Its dressed in an odd princess gown, a beautiful little blue cloth that shimmers. In its hand, a piece of paper has been scrunched up.
Sherlock pulls it out gently, revealing the same flowing script as before:
Meet us at the nearest college campus. You'll know it, won't you, Mr. Holmes?
If not, Sleeping Beauty may do far much more than simply fall asleep….
His heart pangs oddly, looking down at the note. When he had donated his sperm, it had been for a simple reason: drug money. The reward had been modest and enough to support his habit, until he managed to obtain a source of income for himself.
It never crossed his mind before that someone might have used his sperm. He frowns, feeling uncomfortable with the feeling that a child of his exists.
He is a father.
The label feels foreign, and he shakes, assuring himself that he has no parental duty to any child created from his donation. If anything, the child should thank him for making its life possible.
"Her life," Sherlock corrected himself. No one is an it.
But regardless, by being his child and for that simple fact alone, she is in danger. Sherlock frowns again, troubled by his sense of responsibility. Does he owe anything to this child?
His eyes flicker down to the doll with the skull. Perhaps he would have a chance to mold a minion…Not that he ever wanted to.
"It's an interesting case," Sherlock says softly, giving himself the excuse he needs.
Caring, after all, is not an advantage.
"What's the rush, John?" Lestrade shouts, sprinting to meet up with his friend.
"I need your help," John stammers, his cheeks a deep shade of scarlet.
Lestrade grins, wiggling his eyebrows. Just from the color of John's face, it becomes obvious that this has something to do with Mary. The woman always unsettles Lestrade a little bit, but he pushes this aside. She makes John happy, and to him, that is good enough.
Lord knows what happened with the last one…
"Oh?" Lestrade says, rocking back slightly on his feet. "You're old enough to solicit someone on your own!"
John rolls his eyes, tempted to smack Lestrade. "You know very well what I need help with and it certainly isn't that!"
"You're going to spend a large sum on a woman," Lestrade says in a deadpan, trying to hold back laughter. He fails, his face becoming funnier than the joke itself. Soon enough, John is laughing along with him, grinning from ear to ear.
"Very funny, Greg," John smiles again. "I'm not sure how to go about this…"
"You're going to have to say it, John," Greg teases, "I'm still convinced we're talking about purchasing a good time with no questions asked."
"Oh, shove off," John groans. He musters as much of his courage as he can, "I'm going to ask Mary to marry me."
"I know," Lestrade butts in, grinning like the devil. "What else is new?"
"Help me pick out a ring," John stammers, smiling as cutely as he can. It sends Lestrade into another bout of laughter, but he manages to nod to John.
"Brilliant!" John exclaims, his face lighting up. "I figured this shop will do—don't you think?"
Lestrade nods, pushing John inside ahead of him. It's a rather fancy place, with jewels sitting in every cabinet. The employees are dressed smartly, helping elderly women with deep pockets pick out the latest ring for their collection. Soothing violin music plays over the speakers.
For a moment, Lestrade's mind flickers to Sherlock.
"Well, what do I do?" John asks, hesitant to ask the shop assistants for help.
"You've got to find something that just…screams Mary," Lestrade advises. He wanders over to a cabinet, dragging John along with him.
"What sort of things does she like?"
"I….I don't really know. She likes cats and walks and baking," John offers, his face turning red.
A small warning sign goes off in Lestrade's head, but he ignores it. John's probably just a bit nervous and forgetful—he could hardly blame him for it.
"Right," Lestrade nods, "Hm…Describe her to me. I want you to tell me what you love about her."
John pauses, as if Lestrade had asked him how many protons there were in a single atom of boron. A few moments pass awkwardly between the two of them, Lestrade being quite uncertain of what to do.
"She's just lovely," John answers lamely. "Whenever I need to talk, she's there for me. She makes me laugh and smile again."
Lestrade nods, as if this type of behavior is normal. The pit in his stomach widens rapidly, and he wonders if Mary really is a good idea. Surely, John knows something about the person he wants to marry?
"That's great," Lestrade praises limply. "Hmm…You know what. I've got an eye for jewelry."
He glances around, before a singular ring catches his eye. It isn't pure diamond, but he fancies John will like it. A bit nervously, he points it out to John.
"How about that one?" Lestrade asks.
"It's perfect!" John beams, causing Lestrade's heart to sink even further.
"Well, that's great," Lestrade lies, "Why don't you go purchase it for her? You've got her ring size, right?"
"Of course!" John laughs, motioning for a shop assistant. "She's going to love it. I look at it and….I feel myself falling in love with her all over again."
The jewel of the ring is almost the exact shade of Sherlock's eyes.
