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 9

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John began the following days light-hearted. Sherlock was still on the field, but Baker Street became a more peaceful place. He had made contact with Irene Adler and began to do the same with Misha. He didn't pretend to replace anyone, but it helped to make the days more comfortable.

He ended up getting used to their presence in the flat. He rose in the morning, prepared breakfast. During the day, in his absence, Mrs. Hudson ensured a reassuring presence. Misha loved her, because she baked him lot of cakes. And, in the evening, he returned, Misha told him about his day, and he was cooking with Irene Adler, who had finally asked Mrs. Hudson to give her some cooking lessons, having no more staff to do it in her place.

"Sherlock gave news today?" He asked, opening a bottle of wine.

"Nothing. Nor Mycroft Holmes."

John let out an exasperated sigh.

"What are they waiting for? They could at least keep us informed, we at least know whether to worry or not."

The cork flew with a small "pop!". Irene Adler went to put the bowl on the table. Misha, who drew sitting on the sofa, put his pen down and took a chair. John smiled, watching him.

"I wish I could have a son like him," he appreciated. "It's just if we need to tell him what to do."

Irene Adler looked at him with an amused expression.

"In reaching this result, however, hasn't been easy," she admitted. "It took me a lot of patience and diplomacy. When he was two, he said 'no' to everything. He always put me to the test. Fortunately for me, I didn't give up."

She tied a towel around Misha's neck.

"Regarding the current case, I doubt that we should really worry about. No news is good news, they say. Not to mention that if things had changed in the wrong direction, the security would be enhanced. Or at least we would have noticed a significant change. Everything remaining in the state makes me thinks that the situation is now safe. I'm not saying that everything is better, but a fine thing is already a good thing."

"If we could at least hear from this fool, it would be better as well."

They sat down to table. Misha lifted his fork.

"Enjoy!" He chirped.

John stroked his hair, smiling. For a second, he really had the impression of what family life looked like. He remembered the day with Mary, and wondered if he could have lived these moments with her one day. Then he remembered Sherlock became a father unwillingly, and tried to imagine him at his place at the table.

"Otherwise," he started while Misha began his salad. "Did Sherlock mention… the…"

He cast a revealing look at the little boy. Irene Adler shook her head sadly.

"No. Since receiving this picture, I haven't had much opportunity to see him, much less talk to him. I think somewhere he considers him more as my son than his own. Once he presented him as such, but knowing him, he must have done it on purpose, so that his brother would agree to help me."

"It's perfectly like him."

"And I can understand that attitude. I called for help, and he came not knowing what to expect. He wasn't ready."

"And you think that one day…"

Irene Adler turned the tail of her glass between her fingers.

"The question wasn't asked, and I think that given the situation, it would be premature. I mean, I called him to help me, and that's what Mr. Holmes will do. I don't ask him more."

She took a sip of wine.

"He's who he is," she philosophized. "Seek to make him change is a bad idea. If he has to change, he will himself. I can't force him to admit, Doctor Watson, and I don't want it, even though I admit that it is my dearest wish."

"And the boy? Does he know about Sherlock?"

Irene Adler shook her head again.

"While this story isn't resolved and Mr. Holmes hasn't made a decision, no statement will be made. That's the best I can do. I can't disclose the existence of a father who wouldn't want him."

It was logical.

John was silent, watching Irene Adler before him. He advised the hairs, the brown roots were starting to become visible, the nails become shorter and without varnish because of Mrs. Hudson cooking lessons. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and dark circles of the first nights were still visible under her eyes.

"Listen, Miss Adler…"

"Irene."

He looked at her.

"What?"

"Irene." She put her wine glass down. "I say that because my situation and proximity, 'Miss Adler' may have become too formal. I think it would be more practical that we use our names, what do you think?"

John moved his shoulders, undecided. Irene Adler, despite recent events, was a little remained as a form of entity for him. She was little known, and she was more related to Sherlock than to him. Therefore, this step seemed somewhat obvious.

"I don't want to force you, Doctor Watson, I'm just saying…"

John looked up at her, but Irene Adler looked very serious. She offered no ulterior motive, because for her it was a logical step. Defeated by her innocence, he capitulated.

"Okay… Irene. In that case, call me John."

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But despite the new step, John feared the coming days. Sherlock and Mycroft still didn't give news, and the weight of the confinement was beginning to be felt. Irene accommodated because she had no choice, so she spent time taking the necessary steps for the future of her american possessions. But Misha, unaware of the situation, turned around in the apartment without understanding why he wasn't allowed out. John did everything he could, he had taken of the Cluedo from the wall, downloaded films, Mrs. Hudson interfered with cooking lessons, but John felt it, nobody would take more than a week.

"It starts to be tense here; they won't stay locked like that for a long time. News? (JW) "

He had, of course, no response to his message. He resolved to an alternative and contacted Lestrade.

"Hi, Greg. News from Sherlock? (JW) "

The return was fast and without appeal.

"No, why? (GL) "

"He's up to his neck in a case, I think you knew in a little more. (JW) "

"In this case, it's not from me. He even specifically asked me not to bother him with an investigation under any circumstances. (GL) "

John was happy to know that Sherlock invested so much, but if they could have at least an indication of the progress of his research, it would help to pass the time.

"Why, is he gone? (GL) "

"Why do you think I'm asking? (JW) "

John dropped his hand holding the phone. A new SMS alert sounded, but he didn't bother to open the message. Instead, he wrote another:

"Tell us, at least, if you're still alive, that would be good. (JW) "

The response was as rapid as it was unexpected:

"Still alive. (SH) "

Far from reassuring, this terse SMS completed the exasperation. He didn't ask more precisely, certain that Sherlock would only point out that this was all that John had asked. However, he would have liked a little more willingness on the part of his friend.

Nevermind…

John looked at his phone. He knew Sherlock too much to know that insisting on his investigation would only make him muter. However, he had a multitude of topics likely to react.

"Irene and I started to call us by our first names. Mrs. Hudson gives her cooking lessons… "

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John counted three days before getting a response. And he wasn't disappointed.

Sherlock simply reappeared in Baker Street in the evening. John heard the front door open and close, then footsteps on the stairs. The small voice of Misha arose then:

"Mr. Sherlock!"

Sherlock saw the little boy rushing towards him, the deerstalker on his head. He had found the hat in the closet, looking for something to do, and didn't separate from it, even if the hat was a little big for him.

Sherlock mechanically stroked his hair in a gesture that was more of a reflex than affection. Then he entered the room, attracted by the smell of cooking.

John and Irene were there in front of the oven.

"Oh!" John said. "A ghost. It was time, they began to wonder if you'd come back one day."

"They are baking a cake for dessert!" Misha enthused.

Sherlock watched him fussing in the room as if he was watching a parallel dimension.

"Mrs. Hudson has been giving her cooking lessons since several days ago, I had told you by SMS," John explained. "And she just made herself her first recipe."

Sherlock turned his head toward Irene. Bare feet in the blue dressing gown, she was focused on cooking.

"Moreover, it should further ado," John went back to her.

He and Irene still remained motionless a few seconds, looking at the oven. John then opened it and pulled out what looked like a fruitcake.

"Well, let's see now…"

He took a knife and stuck it into the cake. A-side of him, Irene held her breath. John then pulled the knife, which was clean. The sentence fell:

"Successful cooking."

Irene let out an exclamation of joy. John applauded and raised her hand in victory.

"We'll see after for tasting, if no one is poisoned," he tempered.

Irene spontaneously gave him a slap behind the head.

Sherlock looked at them laughing without moving. Then John, after putting the knife and advised to wait for the cake to cool to unmold, approached him.

"It's about time you came back," he whispered, "I didn't know any more what to do to occupy them."

He cast a quick glance behind him to see Irene showing the cake to Misha.

"So, your research, what happens this time? Sherlock, they're tired of going around here without knowing what's going on outside. Tell us if there's at least a track or a solution."

But Sherlock barely heard the question. He looked at Irene, radiant before her first culinary feat. Her hairs had become brown again, but loose and curly iron. Her lips were not red, but pink. Her face had regained some colour and vitality.

John followed his gaze and understood.

"She's keeping busy as she may, what do you want? But she has something to do; she's organizing the future repatriation of her accounts and her business, because apparently she can no longer return to New York. The hardest thing is Misha. The poor boy, he's floundering here without being able to set foot outside. He's brought in a foreign country and doesn't even have the opportunity to see it, you must understand his frustration."

He went to the coffee table and rid Misha's drawings in order to lay the table.

"Mrs. Hudson helps a lot, she gives him things to do, and then we kill time as we can."

He gathered the chairs.

"So? Your research?"

"Distracted by your incessant texts."

John opened his arms and let them fall.

"You haven't given any news," he justified. "We don't even know if the situation had improved or had worsened. I had to make you react, to make you tell us how it went. I agree that you're busy, but it would be nice not to forget them."

"Anyway, they risk nothing. They have a brilliant doctor to watch over them."

John looked at Sherlock. He wasn't very sure he understood the meaning of the reflection.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock turned his head towards him. His face was frozen in an unreadable expression. And, without knowing how, John understood.

Jealousy.

John paused for a time. In his head, then marched successively multiple emotions.

Surprise. Bewilderment. Petrifaction.

Dismay.

His mouth rounded a silent exclamation when he looked at Sherlock before him. His shoulders fell back, weighed down by the chock. He froze, mouth opened.

He watched his friend, broken by stupor.

Jealousy. Sherlock Holmes was jealous. Then dismay vanished and turned into annoyance.

Sherlock had disappeared for over a week now, leaving Irene and her son locked in an apartment they didn't know they could go out one day. John had to use every conceivable subject to break his silence. He understood the need for discretion in his research, but was it too much to give, from time to time, an indication of their progress? No, he disappeared without a word, true to form, leaving John to manage everything alone. And he pretended to come back, heart in mouth, to reproach him his closeness to Irene?

Sherlock had disappeared more than a week. What did he want John to do? Pretend they weren't there?

He felt anger rising in him. At the situation progressed, at least he understood the behaviour of his friend.

"You were always hanging out, never at home, what did you think, genius?"

Sherlock was silent. His lips were tight. He considered John fiercely planted before him, Irene still in the kitchen, who watched with concern, and Misha with his deerstalker on the head. His body swung, as if to leave, then he seemed to remember something.

"We went back to a cell next to Greenwich," he announced then. "It's already under surveillance. I'm not saying that neutralization will solve all problems, but it will be one less worry."

John immediately knew what was coming, and his shoulders fell back.

"Sherlock, you're ridiculous…"

Too late. He turned and left the house. The front door slammed, and there was silence.

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