The text came in at exactly midnight: 1146 Clyde St. London. Bring the file, or she dies. Don't call the police, or she dies.
An ineloquent series of directions that did nothing to impress or beleaguer the detective. If Lorna wasn't involved, he probably would've considered the case well-below his paygrade. But she was, and so he persisted, longing for the moment when it was all over and he could settle in for a bath.
Sherlock's hand was on the front door when he heard the creaking down the stairs. From the weight and the care taken to descend each step quietly, he knew exactly who it was before he turned around. Another miscalculation to stall his proceedings.
"You were asleep," Sherlock muttered in a rush defense.
"I had a bad dream," whispered Basil angrily. He came face to face with his father. "I dreamt some prick stole my phone."
There was no point in denying it. Sighing, the man plucked the mobile out of his coat pocket and tossed it to Basil. He peered through his messages with anxious fervor.
"I didn't get anything."
The text, thankfully, was sent to Sherlock and Sherlock alone. Removing the phone had been precautionary. The assailant knew, at this point, that the boy did not know the whereabouts of the final file. Thus, any incoming messages would only be attempts to use Basil for blackmail, should Lorna give any trouble.
"Nope. Looks like you're off the case. Get back to bed." Sherlock snatched the phone back from the boy and dropped in into his pocket once more.
Basil thrust his coat from the hook by the door and slid into it ferociously.
"Not a chance. Give me my phone back," He said.
Sherlock stood firmly planted between his son and the door.
"It doesn't take a mastermind to figure out how to track a phone. Please, I'm trying to keep you…safe."
It was like the word had sparked a fire inside Basil. Suddenly, the boy didn't care about waking everyone in the house up. He yelled at his father with more volume than Sherlock could have ever imagined escaping from the typically stoic teenager.
"SAFE? Now you're worried about me being safe? No, you don't get to pick and choose when to care about me, Sherlock. When there was a gun to my head, you didn't give a shit, but now, suddenly, you're a good father? Who are you trying to show off for, this time?"
A good father.
3 years ago
Basil was far braver than Sherlock had been expecting. He didn't utter a single noise while the barrel of the gun shoved more forcefully into his temple.
He was supposed to wait in the cab, like he'd been told. He wasn't even supposed to have made it to the cab from the flat, but he'd insisted on joining Sherlock on the finale of the case of the "Skeleton Key", as John had christened it. Basil had been bored, or lonely, or plainly foolish, and one or more of those characteristics had gotten him into an immediate hostage situation.
The stand-off was simple. Sherlock had the key, a key to the Lindberg family tomb that had been preserved and unopened fifty years. Inside contained not only their accumulated fortune, but a collection of artillery to envy. Across from him was the groundskeeper, who had spent his whole life searching for the fabled key, and had stolen it from a second-rate museum. In the groundskeeper's clutches, stood Basil. When Sherlock had snatched the key, the villain had grabbed his son and pulled the gun.
"Hand it over," the man coughed out. "Hand it over, and I won't shoot."
It took Sherlock about a second to gather the full story. This man had grown up in poverty. He had two children, both boys. One was sick. He needed money. He was desperate. But he was not evil. The gun itself gave him away.
Sherlock took a step closer.
"You won't shoot him," he said simply. "Whether I hand it over or not. You're not a murderer, and you're not about to break that track record for a silly key."
Basil went wide eyed as he stared at his father. The man's hands trembled, but the gun cocked.
"I've come too far to walk away without it."
"Oh, believe me, you won't be leaving. Scotland Yard is on its way as we speak."
The gun was thrust harder against Basil, and for once the boy let out a soft whimper.
"Then you better think fast," the man bellowed. "I swear, I'll do it! You'd bet your own son's life?"
"I don't need to bet. You won't hurt him."
He was being taunting and he knew it. If Mrs. Hudson had been there she would've whispered a small, "Norbury" in his ear. Still, this was one case he was not about to fail. Sherlock had grown so tired of unfinished plots and unanswered questions.
"Dad…."
His eyes darted down to his son's, which were watery. He hadn't been called that in quite some time.
"Please," Basil whispered.
Sherlock said nothing. Sirens were heard in the distance, and the groundskeeper looked around frantically.
"I…I warned you!" He choked out. He pulled the trigger.
A loud bang. Basil was dropped to the ground as the man stumbled backwards, hoping the shock would've caused Sherlock to drop the antiquity. It did not. Instead, he stuffed the key into his pocket, and knelt down next to his boy.
"I knew you didn't have it in you," Sherlock said to the shivering man. Police cars pulled up around them, but Sherlock only had eyes for his son. Basil was panting, remaining on all fours against the concrete. He looked like he was going to be sick. There was no blood, no wound of any kind. Sherlock tried to pull the numb boy into a seated position, and gently wrapped his arm around his shoulders.
"Basil, it's alright," He said quietly. "You're alright. The gun was a blank. I knew it was a blank. You were never in any danger."
"Don't touch me!' Basil wrenched away.
"Sherlock!" John's voice rang out over the sudden commotion. He was sliding out of one of the cars and ran over to them. "Basil, Jesus, are you hurt?"
"N-no."
"He's possibly in shock. Did anyone bring one of those blanket things?" Sherlock had never seen his child in so much distress. He tried in desperation to understand where it was coming from.
"I'm not in shock!" Basil protested. "I…John, can you please just take me back?"
"Yeah, of course," John eyed Sherlock for more of an explanation, but he didn't receive any.
Sherlock remained behind to consult in the arrest. That would give Basil time to cool off. He'd hoped everything would've returned to normal by the time he arrived back at the flat, but Basil didn't say two words to him. He allowed Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him and give him tea, but kept silent whenever Sherlock was even within earshot.
"You let him down," John explained after he'd taken Sherlock aside in the bedroom. "You have to put your child first, always. I didn't think I needed to tell you that."
"I knew from the first minute that it was a blank fire, I can spot them from a mile away. If I thought there was even the slightest chance he could've been harmed—"
"Yes, but he didn't know any of that! He was left thinking his father was about to let him die!"
Oh. John could see what Sherlock could not. In his pride, he'd forgotten that Basil was a child. A child ought to believe someone always has their back. Especially a parent.
"I've done some damage, haven't I," He admitted slowly.
"Yeah, you have. Lorna's on her way to pick him up. I'd stay in here until then, because I don't think he wants to see you."
Hours passed, and Sherlock sat alone in his dark room that had become his self-proclaimed prison. When Basil was small and unruly, he'd seen Lorna place him in "time out" to think about the consequences of his actions. This must have been his version of that.
At last, he heard the flat door open. Voices he did not care to listen in on rippled about in the next room, and Sherlock lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
"Wait downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, I won't be a minute," He heard Lorna tell their son. Much to his chagrin, she opened the bedroom door without knocking and the light from the next room illuminated Sherlock's dark figure. He didn't look at her.
"If you're here to scold me, John's already taken care of that," He grumbled.
She said nothing for a moment, just came in and sat at the end of the bed by his feet.
"He won't forgive me for this, will he," Sherlock proposed, sitting up to take her in. She was exhausted, but trying to look alert.
"Not for a good long while."
Sherlock remained silent. Even with what little he understood of Basil, he could tell this was a lecture that should not be countered. When the boy realized he wasn't going to respond, it only fueled his anger.
"I know what I am to you," Basil steadied his voice, but it was dripping with danger. "An inconvenience. The great Sherlock Holmes was burdened with a son that doesn't come close to living up to the name. Well, guess what? It doesn't change the fact that you're stuck with me. You don't have to pretend otherwise. I know you never wanted me."
16 ¾ years ago
It was rare that Sherlock was waiting for Lorna when she returned home. He should have been at St. Bart's, examining the latest victim of brutality with the potential of being connected to Moran's rapidly-growing empire. Instead, he held back, and when she walked through the door he emerged from the kitchen and cornered her as casually as he could.
"Tea?" He offered. "I just put the kettle on."
Lorna did not fall for his quaint display of hospitality. She tossed her bag on the table and slid off her coat, eyeing him suspiciously.
"You never make tea. You trying to poison me?"
"I still need you alive," He reminded her, smirking.
"Drug me?"
"An interrogation is a bit of a rude reply to my offer. I take it you don't want any."
"What do you want, Holmes?"
"You look tired, is all."
"I'm fine, thanks."
She narrowed her eyes and moved to sit on the couch, clearly hoping the conversation had ended. Sherlock persisted, trying not to accuse her all at once, but subtly and aptly.
"The Smiths were asking after you, today," He said nonchalantly, closing his laptop. He spotted her shoulders stiffen out of the corner of his eye.
"Oh?" She muttered. "I'll call them back tomorrow."
"They didn't call. They came by the flat. Wanted to talk in person."
"Did they?" She stood up with some difficulty and carefully tried to make her exit.
"They were concerned they said or did something to make you terminate your adoption agreement."
There it was. Lorna looked like a deer caught in the headlights. She turned to look at Sherlock with a composition of fear and guilt.
"I was going to tell you—" She began, stepping toward him.
"No, you weren't."
Lorna sucked in a breath and leaned against the wall.
"The Smiths are a nice family. Incessantly average. I didn't want them getting mixed up with me or a child related to me."
"A touching sentiment, but a lie. Try again."
"I changed my mind, they aren't a good fit."
"No."
Sherlock moved closer. Though she was feet away, she shrank back like he had pinned her. Lorna kept her gaze firmly at his shoes and when she spoke her mouth hardly moved.
"I want to keep it."
When the truth came out, though Sherlock had known it all along, he didn't let his lack of surprise derail his attack.
"I know," He said softly. "I predicted you'd end in this resolve. I pity the couples whose time you wasted with adoption interviews…"
"Look, I didn't even know it was what I wanted until maybe a week ago. When did you solidify your estimation?" She cut in.
"I suspected ever since you bottled out of the abortion. After that, it was only a matter of time."
"I loathe when you act like you know me better than I know myself," she grumbled. "Even when you do."
Silence. Sherlock sighed dramatically.
"Would you like me to explain why this is a terrible idea, or do you already know?"
"Holmes," Lorna said pleadingly. "Just try to understand. My life has been reckless and messy. All that's finally ending, and when it does, can you really blame me for wanting some conventionality? A year ago I wouldn't have ever seen myself as a mother, but now…a kid may just be my next chapter."
"Sorry, but what is there to understand?" Sherlock spat. "You are still who you are, a baby is not going to change that. If anything it'll complicate it. You'll have something else to protect, to worry about."
"The League's almost finished. I'll be able to move on."
"You never 'move on'!" He was thinking of Mary as his composure burst. Family just wasn't an option for those who'd chosen a treacherous path. "And what of me?" He asked at last. "How do I fit into this fantasy of yours?"
She bit her lip and met his eyes for the first time.
"You…you don't have to. When it's born, I'll move out. When we've finished our business, you won't have to see me or it again."
Sherlock leaned back on his heels.
"Good," He murmured, turning around to fetch his teacup.
"Unless-"
"You will not domesticate me, Lorna!" He would not be twisted into feeling he wanted the life she dully craved. He would not be fooled into thinking it was his place to pretend he could be anything remotely resembling a father figure. His life had no space for family.
Lorna swallowed and balled her hands into fists. A shiver of a laugh escaped from her trembling lips.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Part of him wished she would.
"You're right," Sherlock said as his son's breathing became steadier. "I never wanted to be a father."
"Jeez, I just said that, you don't have to rub it in!"
"What I mean is," Sherlock stepped over to him, holding up a hand to cease his volcanic interruption. "I never wanted to be a father because the thought that I would be one never occurred to me. I did not love easily, nor was I easily loved. I knew I would never marry. I knew I would never raise a family. That was the life I'd accepted, so when you came along it threw me for a loop."
Basil pulled his coat tighter around him but listened quietly with narrowed brows.
"You were something I didn't foresee. I didn't want you because…I didn't know I wanted you. You duped me. That makes you special," Sherlock concluded. The boy looked like he didn't fully believe it, but he didn't fight.
"You know why I never took you to the aquarium when you were young," said Sherlock.
"Yeah," Basil whispered. "Rosie's mum."
"Rationally speaking, the odds of having anything remotely similar happen to you on a day trip there were astronomically slim," Sherlock tightened his scarf. "Yet, it wasn't for bad memories that I did not want to return with you. It was the very irrational fear that I wouldn't be able to protect you there, like I couldn't with her. You are one of very few people who make me irrational."
They stood in front of the door, in an awkward pause that went on for just the right amount of time.
"That's all well and good, Sherlock," Basil sighed, zipping up his coat all the way. "But I'm coming with you."
He pushed past his father and opened the door. Before he stepped out into the cold night, he stopped.
"Don't worry, though," He murmured. "This time, I won't hold it against you if you can't protect me."
The boy had made his choice. All Sherlock could do was what he always did. His best.