John came home late that day, to find Sherlock and Beatrice having a staring contest. He wasn't talking to her, just staring, with a long, almost nostalgic stare, blinking only once or twice, sitting still on the chair. After about two minutes he sunk his head low with a long sigh.
"I can't do this," he murmured. "I just...can't. You deserve better than this...better than me."
"Sherlock?" John called. Sherlock's head shot up and looked towards John.
"When did you get here?" Sherlock asked.
"A couple minutes ago," John replied. "Something wrong?"
"I'm fine."
"You just said you 'can't do this.' Can't do what, Sherlock?"
"This, this 'baby' thing. You know me. I'm not that kind of man!"
"You've been doing great so far."
"It's only been a few days, John. So far, sure, I've been doing fine, but what will happen to her in the next couple of years? I don't know what I'm going to do..."
"Sherlock, are you afraid of something? Because if you-"
"I'm not afraid, John! I don't get scared."
"Yes you do, and you know it. Seriously, Sherlock, you're doing just fine. I thought you thought so, too. What's bothering you?"
"Nothing is bothering me, John! I'm alright!"
"Sherlock, be honest."
"Alright. It's...complicated."
"Complicated? What do you mean?"
"I just don't...want to..."
"Be a bad father? Sherlock, I already told you that you're doing just fine. What could possibly happen?"
"I could treat her the way my father did to me!"
There was a long pause. Sherlock had never mentioned his father once. Now that he did, however, John could see why.
"He was," Sherlock continued, "always busy and always neglectful towards me, and as a young child, it hurt. He was strict and unreasonable..."
"Is that all?" John asked. "You've got to be kidding. Sherlock, I know you to be dedicated to the things you're truly passionate about. You're just new at this. It's going to be okay-"
"You know nothing!" Sherlock hissed, startling the baby. Sherlock looked back towards her, and when she stayed silent, he continued to speak.
"You don't know anything about raising children, John. How could you possibly understand what I am dealing with?"
"Sherlock," John replied, "I never said I understood what you were going through. I just know these things; it's common knowledge. Then again you choose to forget a lot of things that are considered common knowledge."
Sherlock looked at John longingly, then curled up in a fetal position, head tucked in, arms around his knees. Had he finally broken down? John thought. It had only been three days, and it seemed like Sherlock couldn't take any of the nonsense anymore; he wasn't used to this, everything was almost new to him. John had to remember that Sherlock never wanted any of this to happen, which John thought was sad, since the baby was beautiful and would most likely be intelligent like her father.
Not too little over a week ago, John had said that the idea of Sherlock being a father was almost ludicrous, saying that it would be hard for "a child to raise a child." Now, it seemed like Sherlock would make an...interesting father. Not the best father, but most certainly an interesting one.
"Dammit, Sherlock," John mumbled as he pat his companion's back, "you'll be alright."
"How do you know?" Sherlock asked.
"Because you're great at almost everything, so I know you'll be great at this."
"I know..." John chuckled at Sherlock's remark, heading back to the kitchen.
"You want some tea, then, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock nodded his head, standing up and heading towards his music stand, picking up his violin and beginning to play a number of concertos.
Sherlock had done this beforehand, played the violin for his child. She enjoyed it, since her mother was also most likely a musician with her singing background. As Sherlock played, he began to wonder what would become of Violet Burke; she was apparently dying, possibly already dead. Even if she lived, she would never be able to take care of her child. He also wondered if her sickness was hereditary...
...
About a week later, there was a phone call. Sherlock was in his bed, not asleep, and it was almost six in the morning, thinking about a case he just solved, where it was obvious that the husband killed his wife's brother. When Sherlock picked up the phone, it was Lestrade.
"Do you have a case for me?" Sherlock asked.
"Not this time," Lestrade replied. "We found her."
Sherlock sat up in bed, eyes wide, full of interest. He looked over to the crib (new crib, which he and John had assembled themselves after taking an hour to try to figure out how to do so), where Beatrice was possibly asleep or silently awake. He got up from his bed and looked inside, to find his daughter asleep. He grinned.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm positive," Lestrade answered. "We found Violet Burke, I'm sure of it."
