Chip off the old block

Chapter Summary: Sherlock takes John to work as it's one of those holiday things which means John is free on a monday...


21st December 2005

The past week had been surprisingly good despite the hideous way it had begun. Both Mycroft and his mother cancelled the weekly probation meeting, freeing them both up to relax. Sherlock had assumed that Jon would perk up a little, and he had, but there was still something not quite right.

Probably the worry of the week after, Sherlock supposed. He could sympathise with that.

Still he had woken Monday morning feeling positive. John didn't have school because it was one of those holiday things and there was a case. Not the most difficult case in the world but it wasn't gruesome.

It seemed like too much of an opportune moment to let it pass.

His son seemed to be taking forever to wake up. Sherlock crouched in front of the bed, watching the flushed cheeks and the gentle, comforting rise and fall on the bed-spread. Slowly, so slowly, John seemed to stir. Snuggling down even further into his blankets in an obvious attempt to escape waking fully.

"I need to go to work," Sherlock announced loudly.

Those dark blue eyes peeped up at him, blank at first but with some dawning understanding. "Okay," John murmured.

They both stared at each other. Waiting.

"Am I meant to do something?" John asked curiously, a little more comprehension in his eyes.

"Get dressed?" Sherlock offered. "I cannot wheel you down in the bed."

"Oh…" Then John's entire face lit up. "Really? I can come with you?"

"Yes…well…yes," Sherlock nodded. "The body is in the morgue but someone can sit with you if don't want to see the body."

But John, in what Sherlock was slowly starting to realise was typical ten year old boy fashion, looked suddenly desperately eager. "I'll be fine," he assured Sherlock, almost jumping out of the bed.

"We have to visit Scotland Yard first," Sherlock said, oddly touched by the enthusiasm. "I need to pick up…" he trailed off at John's sudden hesitation, "What?"

"The police?" John asked with worry.

"You'll be fine with them." Mostly. They'd probably all think he was a poor little saint for having Sherlock as a father.


Lestrade nearly dropped his files at the sight of John.

"Jesus," he scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "You can't just take a kid home Sherlock. Doesn't matter if you knew his mum-"

"He's my son."

The files actually dropped to the floor this time as Lestrade gaped first at him, then at John, then back at Sherlock.

"You…" Lestrade seemed lost. "Reproduced?" he asked with some horror.

"Yes, I am a fully functioning human being," Sherlock said waspishly as John grinned. "May we get on with it?"

"He's your father," Lestrade checked with John, pointing to Sherlock in case John had a momentary lapse of memory.

John nodded.

"I…Christ almighty Sherlock, how old were you?"

"They were sixteen," John told him frankly. "He stole a broken condom." The tone suggested that Sherlock should have known better than to make such a rookie mistake.

Lestrade opened and shut his mouth a few times before looking at Sherlock.

"In my defence there were rumours going around suggesting that the original owner of the condom was having an affair. I therefore naturally assumed he would have fresh ones," Sherlock scratched at his neck. "I missed the indents in his shoes-"

"I don't…" Lestrade sat down suddenly on the desk chair closest to him, taking up someone else's cubicle. "I … you … who the hell gave him to you?"

"Social services agreed to it," Sherlock said, feeling mildly offended.

"And Mycroft," John added.

Lestrade eyed John up. "More to the point," Lestrade muttered at John's comment.

"Speaking of," Might as well get the ridiculously humiliating condition out of the way now, especially considering the space Mycroft was allowing him at the moment. He hardly wanted to end that. "Mycroft wants you to phone him if I am distracted by a case so that he can whine about the fact that I have a life."

"You don't always work with me."

"Circulate the request. I'm sure you will all enjoy the fact that Mycroft has decided to play at being my keeper."

Lestrade looked between them both dumbly again.

"Can we see the body yet?" John asked, turning to Sherlock.

"God, he really is yours," Lestrade muttered with a groan.


It was a good murder to start John off with; a poisoning so the body wouldn't be too gory.

"Um…" Molly, the newest technician at the morgue started at him hesitantly. "We're not really meant to let children down here."

John gave him a look that seemed to be the equivalent of 'get her'. It appeared that no-one was getting in between John and seeing the body.

"I am his parent, I deem it fine."

Molly blinked and stared at Sherlock as if the world were about to collapse. "Oh," she said sounding falsely bright. "I never knew you were married."

God, what would be more dull? "I am just his parent," Sherlock corrected.

Molly seemed to brighten up again. "And where's your mum today then?" she asked John.

"Prison," John replied frankly.

Molly stared at him wide eyed and then nodded. "Let's go get this body out then shall we," she said with a nervous laugh.


Watching John with the body was nothing short of amusing. His son seemed to dart between being fascinated and disgusted and then right back to fascinated in a matter of seconds. He would dance forwards and backwards, his face showing every emotion.

"Mercury poisoning," Molly said with an 'oh well' tone of voice. "Rather rare these days."

"Mm," Sherlock peered at the fingernails. "And these-"

He broke off when, in the corner of his vision, John jabbed a finger into the corpse's thigh.

"That's really weird," John complained, rubbing his finger, as if he hadn't been the one to initiate contact with the dead flesh.

"No-one asked you to touch it." Sherlock levelled a glare at him and then looked back at Molly. "I assume you've confirmed my identification of the powder-"

Again he was forced to stop when his son for some god unknown reason tried to peek under the sheet covering the corpse's modesty.

"Why?" he asked, starting to feel annoyed.

"Tommy Brown reckons people shit when they die," John told him frankly.

"And you believe they would simply leave the corpses in the mess and stink out the morgue?"

John nodded slowly. "Oh," he said, sounding oddly disappointed. Then suddenly, he turned to Molly. "Do they really crap themselves though?" he asked eagerly.

"Sometimes," Molly replied frankly.

John beamed at the news causing Sherlock to rub at his forehead, pained. "I need coffee," he muttered at Molly, who immediately brightened and dashed off.

"It isn't as if you will be seeing those boys again to brag to them," he said, inspecting the other hand. "Nor would I suggest the best way to make friends is to walk into a classroom bragging about what you got up to with a corpse over Christmas."

"Tommy Brown doesn't go to school," John said scornfully. "He's a bouncer at a club. Mum said he worked as a negotiator when people forget to pay," he added brightly.

Negotiator. What a lovely word for a thug who beat people to get their money. "You talked to him often?" Sherlock asked.

"Twice," John leaned his chin on the metal table. "He's built like a brick. He and Mum snogged once." John pulled a face at the idea. "It was gross."

Sherlock watched him carefully; mind flittering over the possible scenarios that might explain what John had seen. "Was this last year that your mother met Tommy?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "It was cold, Mum would have let me stay with Nell but it was so cold that Nell was wearing a coat."

"Nell? What did she do?"

"I'm not sure," John shrugged. "She got in cars to con rich men out of money. Never got why she didn't meet them inside," he added, as if musing over the idea.

Sherlock said nothing as he bowed his head again, unsure whether to be tickled that John was oddly naïve about the world, grateful that somehow Anna had managed to completely hide that side of their life from John or furious that his son had even been around those people.

Struck by an odd urge, Sherlock scooted the chair over to John, thanking the wheeled chair. Without a word, he scooped John onto his lap and manoeuvred them at the corpse's feet.

"What do you notice about these?" he asked, letting John settle.

"Blisters?" John asked, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Does that mean he has bad shoes on?"

"Or that he walks a lot," Sherlock pointed to the blister on the heel. "What types of shoes do you think he would be wearing?"

John's shifted to look up at him. "Um… uncomfortable ones?"

"Such as?"

"Not trainers…" John looked pensive for a moment. "School shoes?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

"Close," Sherlock traced the blister. "A slight heel here would indicate dress shoes, but if someone pays for dress shoes they usually try to get comfortable ones as well. That implies he didn't want to spend money on the shoe so it was probably part of a uniform, the minimum amount of money spent."

"Who would wear those?" John pulled a face, "Who'd have a job like that?"

"Waiters, concierges-"

"What's that?"

"Doormen; butlers; hotel staff; those in the service industry." Sherlock stared, his mind racing towards the answer.

John poked at the foot, his finger so oddly small compared to Sherlock's. "I don't think I want to be one of those," John said thoughtfully. "I hate wearing those shoes."

It startled him back to the present and Sherlock smirked pressing a kiss to John's hair. When he looked up, Molly was staring at him, stunned.

An odd feeling of…annoyance swept him. It was hard to tell if it was embarrassment at being caught with John or whether it was frustration that everyone seemed to think it was so strange that he would spend time with his child.

"Coffee?" he snapped at her. In his lap, John turned in confusion to peer up at Sherlock, startled.

"Oh," she held out the mug. "Two sugars?"

Wonders would never cease. After five months she was finally getting the hang of it. As she stepped over, John darted out of his lap and peered cautiously at the face.

"That's gross," John complained dancing back and forth.

Again.


He needed to see the crime scene. Annoyingly Anderson was still there, doing something unconstructive in the kitchen of the tiny little house in Bethnal Green.

"Oh for God's sake," Anderson muttered at the sight of him. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock swept through and immediately went down to his knees to look under the cabinets. "Have you looked down here?"

"Do I look like the maid?"

Sherlock looked up. "Apologies; I idiotically mistook you for a competent worker?"

Anderson sneered down at him. As he looked back up Sherlock could see the moment he clocked John lingering in the doorway. A blink of surprise and then a gawp of confusion; Anderson's typical state, surely?

"You!" Anderson snapped. "Get out-"

Sherlock glared up and back at John who was looking unsure. "He's mine," he said. "Stay," he pointed at John.

Obediently, John stayed, though he didn't look comfortable.

"Yours?" Anderson scowled. "Your what?"

Good god, what was the man's purpose in being? "Child," he said, pained beyond belief, turning back to the gap, satisfied that John wasn't about to flee. "What else would he be?"

"You have a…who would give you a child?" Anderson asked, sounding utterly baffled.

"Natural selection," Sherlock replied. "He just spontaneously appeared."

Anderson clearly couldn't decide what to do with that. He just kept gazing at the pair of them as if an answer would appear.

Much like his attitude to forensics.

There, the plastic tube that one put sherbet in. The murder weapon.

"He doesn't look like yours," Anderson announced, oblivious to the fact that Sherlock had found what he was missing.

Sherlock stood in one move. "Your point?"

It was amusing to see Anderson struggle.

"Bag," Sherlock clicked his fingers. When Anderson decided to ignore him and scoff, turning back to the sink.

Really? What use was the sink going to be? Sherlock reached over for an evidence bag, dropping the straw in.

John still hadn't stepped foot into the room. Turning to him, Sherlock watched his son eye Anderson cautiously. Then his eyes slid to the packed lunch on the table.

Ridiculous man.


It was only after returning to Scotland Yard and denouncing the idiot still rooting around the sink as incompetent, that the thought occurred.

They hadn't eaten.

He stopped still on the street and John continued a few paces before he realised Sherlock had stopped.

"What? Did you get it wrong?" John asked curiously.

Wrong? "I don't get things wrong," Sherlock snapped. "I occasionally miss something, but that's lack of data. I am not wrong."

John threw up his hands and muttered something under his breath.

"You haven't eaten," Sherlock frowned at him.

"No," John cocked his head to the side. "I've been with you all day."

"I…" Sherlock looked around. "You didn't tell me."

Those dark blue eyes narrowed. "I've been with you," John repeated, as if Sherlock were stupid.

"I have better things to think about," Sherlock dismissed.

"I know," John replied. "I didn't want to annoy you."

That was oddly painful. "I didn't mean…you shouldn't…" This was intolerable; he never floundered.

John stared, waiting.

"I forget," Sherlock said slowly, stepping forward. "I forget people get hungry. You should tell me when you need food-"

"But then you'd take me home," John said quietly. "And I wanted to stay with you."

No-one said that. No-one ever said that. Unsure what to do with that, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"It was a four," Sherlock said eventually. "I can have lunch for anything under a six."

"Oh…" John scuffed his shoe on the pavement. "I didn't know what number it was. Or that rule," he added, sounding sheepish about his lack of knowledge. As if Sherlock's code was a worldwide phenomenon.

Which it should be.

"Come along," Sherlock turned on his heel. "We've solved the case. We'll have some food now."

John grinned and nodded. "And dessert?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if he would dare take the boy somewhere without. Hardly a sane idea.