A/N: So, this chapter got to be really long. But, I don't think many of you will mind that. Thank you for all of the lovely reviews and favorites. I really appreciate the feedback and that everyone is enjoying the story.
True to his word, Sherlock returned to Darwin at the start of the last week of October. Irene had reliably informed him that their offspring had not decided to make an appearance yet, so there was still a very good chance that he would be present for the arrival. This, of course, pleased Irene, who was starting to get cold feet about raising a child on her own.
Almost as if on cue, Irene woke Sherlock up during the middle of the night the day after he arrived. They proceeded to drive to the local hospital, where Irene delivered a five-pound, 3 ounce little girl. She was small, as expected, but she came out screaming loudly, assuring everyone that she was just fine. The doctor handed the scissors over to Sherlock, offering him the chance to cut the cord like any typical new father would. He did so reluctantly, and the little girl was handed up to her mother.
Twenty minutes later, the nurses and doctors were out of the room, leaving Irene, Sherlock, and the infant alone. "Good work," Sherlock said quietly as he stood awkwardly at Irene's bedside.
Irene looked up at him with a look of amazement. "Good work? I go through almost fifteen hours of labor and all you have to say at the end of it is good work?" she squeaked.
"Your craftsmanship is impeccable," he added.
"Oh, why can't you just be normal for once and just say that your daughter is gorgeous?" Irene sighed.
"She'll likely have your physical appearance."
"Sherlock, so help me god, if you don't start showing even a slight amount of emotion in response to the arrival of your daughter—yes, she's definitely yours; that chin is undeniably yours—I may have to hurt you," Irene hissed.
He smirked. "I believe that was how we ended up in this position."
Irene sighed and turned her attention back to her daughter, who was looking in the general direction of her father. "I think she likes your voice," Irene remarked. "It's a deeper register than mine, and because you haven't been present for the last few months, she's reacting to the different sound."
"Irene, why are you so adamant that I need to have some sort of emotional reaction or connection to her? You know that I don't do emotions."
"But she's your daughter. Even if you don't do emotions, I know that you feel at least the slightest amount of affection towards her simply because she's biologically related to you. Just as you maintain a minimal degree of affection towards Mycroft because he's your brother because he has been the only person in the world who is connected to you by default. Until now, at least."
Sherlock scowled at Irene. "Are you claiming that because she has half of my DNA that I automatically should love or care about her?"
"Yes."
"I fear for her then, because I cannot guarantee such a thing."
"You have already picked out a school for her! You chose that house knowing that it would be her first home. I don't think you're consciously aware of what being a father means, but you've already started by ensuring that, firstly, we're both alive; secondly, we have somewhere to live; thirdly, she will have the best opportunities as possible; and fourthly, you've done all of this, arranging it all so that you might be able to play a part, albeit small, in her upbringing."
"And you've reached the extent to which I will demonstrate any sort of affection or indicate any sort of caring."
"That's what you think," Irene murmured as she brushed her thumb across their daughter's cheek.
He sighed and sat down in the chair next to the bed. His brow was furrowed as he examined the child. She had traces of downy hair that would likely darken as she became older. Her growth had been compromised during the crucial months of development that Irene had spent in Karachi, but he was confident that she would quickly catch up with her peers. Her interest in his voice (she was still staring in his general direction) indicated that she had probably already surpassed her peers in intelligence.
It wasn't for another five hours that Sherlock was able to hold his daughter for the first time. He had been more than happy to let Irene bond with the infant while he stood on the sidelines, but when the nurses brought the baby in to be fed and found that Irene was dead asleep and determined that even if they were to wake her, she would be too weak to feed, the nurses suggested that Sherlock try his hand at giving the baby a bottle of formula.
He had been reluctant at first, but decided that since it was likely that he would have to hold and feed the baby at some point during the remainder of his stay in Darwin, he would take this opportunity to learn how to do it properly. The last thing he wanted was Irene to harangue him about not doing these things properly.
The nurse placed the little girl into his arms, indicating how she needed to be supported. The little girl had been fussy when the nurse brought her in, but once she was in her father's arms, she quieted down and stared at him intently. Based on what Sherlock had briefly researched on the matter of infants on the flight from London, he remembered that at birth, infants could only see things that fell within the distance of a foot and a half or so, the distance from themselves to their mother's face. Sherlock determined that she was able to focus on his face fairly well.
He hadn't expected that she would feel so light in his arms. Despite being so small, she was strong. Her limbs flailed around as she acquainted herself with her new surroundings and she made little squeaking noises. As much as Sherlock was irritated by it, he couldn't help but find this rather endearing. She was like a little cat.
The association he had made when he likened his child to a cat was further reinforced once he was feeding her. She guzzled greedily, obviously starving after being apart from Irene for a few hours, making mewling noises as she ate. Sherlock laughed to himself as he watched her starting to fall asleep. Was her mind already working as fervently as his always did, concocting elaborate schemes like her mother?
As she started to fall asleep, the nurse helped him burp her. When she was burped and was ready to go back to the nursery, Sherlock brushed his hand over her soft hair and quietly murmured, "Good Kitty," before letting her go.
He sincerely hoped that Irene hadn't seen him demonstrate such affections. He didn't want her to expect him to fall into a pattern of demonstrating affection.
Early the next morning, the baby was brought into the room again. Irene was starting to wake up; she had been soundly asleep for nearly twelve hours as Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep. The nurse placed the baby into Sherlock's arms, since he was more awake than Irene. He glanced down at his daughter (he was starting to accept that he now had a daughter, after knowing about said daughter's existence for about eight months) and gave an almost-smile
The overwhelming impression he had of his daughter that morning was that she seemed very angry. Sherlock couldn't blame her; it was warm where she had been, and quite honestly, there wasn't much point to being outside of the womb when she was so small. It wasn't like she could go travelling the world and take it all in. Her eyesight wouldn't be very useful for at least another few weeks, and at that point, she still wouldn't remember anything. She couldn't read, she couldn't really understand language, and she couldn't understand the nuances of society and culture. He understood why his daughter seemed so angry.
But beyond the scowl that Little Miss Grumpy Kitty (the nickname would have to do, because she didn't have a name yet) wore, she was rather endearing. Once her circulation was in proper working order, she probably would have rosy little cheeks and the same alabaster skin that her parents had. Since he and Irene had such similar coloring, it was difficult to discern whom their daughter would look more like. It was likely that the infant would also have dark, curly hair and lightly colored eyes. Other physical appearance markers, such as her nose, possible birthmarks, freckles that would develop later, were still too vague to anticipate.
There was no doubt that Little Miss Grumpy Kitty would be too clever for her own good, and would make thorough use of her intelligence to get through life, though Sherlock hoped that she would decide to take a different career path than her mother. Irene would probably pass along the finesse of charming people as a means of manipulation at an early age by posing Sherlock as the baby's first victim. If she took after her mother in both personality and appearance, and took after Sherlock in intelligence, this little girl would grow up to be an immeasurable force to reckon with. They might as well just ship her off to Mycroft now, so he could train his replacement.
Irene stirred in her bed, rolling onto her side so she faced Sherlock, slowly coming out her sleep. Her breathing changed, and she seemed to unconsciously recognize that she was being watched. Slowly, she opened one eye and registered her surroundings. "How long has she been here?" she slurred.
"Not long. Do you want to hold her?" he asked.
"I'm still too groggy and drugged up. I'm afraid I'd drop her," Irene murmured.
He smiled genuinely and stood up from his chair, making sure not to disturb Little Miss Grumpy Kitty (the nickname was starting to seem too long; she really needed a name) as he did so. Irene struggled to sit up, but eventually managed to sit up in the bed with the help of Sherlock. Once Irene was situated, Sherlock handed the baby over.
"Since when did you become a pro at this?" Irene laughed as she watched Sherlock attend to the baby with inscrutable care.
"I'm a quick study," he muttered as he sat down next to Irene's legs on the bed.
Irene brushed her daughter's hand with her index finger and gazed down at the child with an expression of infinite wonder. There really was no reason to talk, so they didn't.
A few minutes later, Irene glanced up and saw that Sherlock wore a vacant expression. "I was thinking we could name her Adele," Irene murmured.
He didn't respond, so she reached over and nudged his shoulder. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock hummed and flicked his eyes to Irene. "Yes?"
"Adele? How does that sound?"
"Adele… the baby?"
"Yes. Adele Jenkins."
"That's fine."
"You don't have any opinion?"
"I said that it was fine. That's an opinion, is it not?"
"But you don't have any suggestions?"
"I told you, you get to name her. You've done most of the work, after all."
"I've done all the work," Irene corrected him.
"So you get to name her."
"Right, but you don't have any names that you like?"
"Irene, I don't really focus on things like this."
"She needs a middle name. What is the first female name that comes to mind?"
"Irene… I don't know… Gertrude?"
"Gertrude is the first name that comes to mind?"
Irene eyed him warily. "You're clearly sleep-deprived."
"You try sleeping in that chair," he grumbled.
Irene ignored this remark. "Come on, Sherlock… let's try this again."
"Aveline."
"Aveline?"
"French."
"For what?"
"Not sure, but based on the stem, it might have something to do with birds."
"Did you know an Aveline?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"She died."
"Sherlock…"
"She was a good friend of mine when I lived in France."
"How did she die?"
"Brutally murdered by her father."
"Oh god…"
"So I guess Aveline is not on the table?"
"No. Not at all. Another name, but not one that our daughter would share with someone who is both someone you know and dead."
Sherlock sighed. He supposed he could suggest his mother's name: Sophelia. Adele Sophelia. It didn't sound terrible.
"Sophelia."
"Ophelia, as in Ophelia from Hamlet?"
"No… Sophelia, as in Sophia and Ophelia put together in a portmanteau," Sherlock explained in a bored tone.
"Sophelia?"
"Yes."
"That sounds like a Holmesian name if I ever did hear one," Irene muttered. "Let me guess… mother's name? Was your father named Hamlet or Hamleterion or something like that?"
"No, surprisingly, Father's name was James. Profoundly normal for being one to marry and produce people with absurd names."
"Keeping family tradition?" Irene asked with a smile.
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "No. Adele is a normal name."
"Adele Sophelia?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," Irene answered honestly. "I like it. It's different, but not too different."
"The cruel nicknames won't be handed to the kids. They'll have to be clever to come up with them," Sherlock added. "Nothing too out of the ordinary with Adele Jenkins."
"Well, not the name, at least. Everything else will be remarkably out of the ordinary for Adele Jenkins," Irene laughed.
Their attention was once more pulled to the newly named Adele. The little girl had snuggled against her mother, her light blue eyes almost closed. She was going to be extraordinary, that was for certain.
The following day, they took Adele home. Irene had been terrified of taking Adele out of the hospital, but Sherlock had acted as the voice of reason as he figured out how to put the car seat into the back seat of Irene's car. "What if it's done incorrectly?" Irene asked frantically as she held Adele to her chest, examining Sherlock's work.
"Elizabeth, four people have verified that it has been put into the car correctly," Sherlock sighed, using her alias in front of the hospital staff.
"But what if they're wrong?" Irene asked, completely failing to notice that all four of the people in question were standing near them.
"They're not," he grumbled as he lifted the car seat with Adele from Irene's lap.
Fortunately for all parties involved, Irene was not driving. She was a wired mess, fussing over every little noise Adele made as Sherlock drove them home. As soon as they reached the flat, Sherlock parked the car and helped Irene out of the car, taking the car seat from her. If Irene's actions had indicated anything to Sherlock, it had been that the remainder of the week was going to be long, and it would take a while before Irene fell into a pattern of things. He almost worried about her mental state and briefly questioned whether he should leave Irene and Adele so soon.
When he remembered that there were things to do back in London, people and cases to get back to, he quickly resolved that staying with Irene and the baby was simply not an option.
The first few days were rough. Irene was still sore from the delivery and Adele wasn't feeding properly. This led to tears from both Irene and Adele, and at one point, Sherlock. (Sherlock had made several inappropriate remarks that had resulted in Irene screaming at him, and since he too was exhausted, his shields were down and his nearly non-existent emotional side was revealed. It hadn't been a particularly proud moment for anyone.)
Eventually, the day before Sherlock went home, things started to calm down. The morning had started with Adele screaming at four in the morning, after sleeping for two hours. Neither Irene nor Sherlock had slept much in the previous days, but Sherlock had a higher tolerance for not sleeping. So, at four in the morning, when Adele, the ever-effective alarm clock, woke up, Sherlock rolled out of the bed, still fully clothed, and staggered over to the cot in the middle of Irene's room.
He picked her up and shuffled out of the room, trying all of the tactics that the books had suggested for calming down infants. But the books were written for parents with average children, so they weren't necessarily the best source for how to calm down Adele. "Kitty," he sighed as he patted her back in a rhythmic pattern, just as the books suggested.
She kept screaming, though the decibels at which she did so seemed to decrease somewhat. Any efforts to continue to calm her down seemed futile, so Sherlock just kept walking around the flat in the same manner that he figured every new father would. Except, he wasn't necessarily a new father. He was just some male figure who would briefly partake in Adele's life before Irene found someone better suited to the job.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It made him jump; no one had called or texted him since nearly a week before. Carefully, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and saw that it was from John, asking about the case that he had gone to investigate.
Sherlock had told John that he was going to Japan to investigate a case regarding a Japanese actress who had mysteriously died after a show to promote a movie she had just finished. Though Sherlock had no intention of actually investigating this case, it had served him well.
In a flash of brilliance, Sherlock glanced down at his daughter, who was still crying, and realized he could use his cases to his advantage. Though John was always good about trying to keep up with Sherlock's analyses of the cases they worked on, it wasn't always evident that John found as much interest in the cases as Sherlock did. And, as Irene had pointed out shortly after Adele was born, Sherlock's voice always caught Adele's attention. Maybe if he were to talk through the case to Adele, maybe she'd go to sleep.
Sherlock had never been so thrilled that his analyses bored someone to sleep when Adele finally fell asleep ten minutes later. Once she was asleep, Sherlock walked around for a little bit longer to make sure that she stayed asleep, but then he sat down in a chair and stared off into space.
Three hours later, Irene walked out into the living room and found them both asleep. She laughed to herself when she saw how uncanny the resemblance was. Sherlock's remark about Irene's craftsmanship certainly was true, but the same could be said for his.
Instead of waking him up and risking that Adele would follow suit, she padded out of the room and went back to bed. Before doing so, however, she grabbed Sherlock's phone and snapped a photo.
Sometime after noon, Irene walked back out into the living room and found that Sherlock and Adele were both awake. She could hear Sherlock quietly muttering as he fed Adele, who was staring at him. "Hi," Irene murmured as she gently combed her fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I guess you've got the Midas touch?"
"Hum?"
"She was dead asleep when I came out here a few hours ago. You were too, for that matter."
"Oh… she bores easily. Good luck with that," he answered.
"How did you do it? Seriously, tell me everything," Irene ordered as she sat down next to Sherlock and leaned against his shoulder.
"Read the newspaper to her. That's the only thing I can figure. I would suggest that you talk about your line of work, but somehow, that just doesn't seem appropriate for an infant."
He smirked to himself as he continued watching Adele, who was watching him. Irene smiled at both of them. "You're wishing you can take her home with you, aren't you?"
"Hardly. You've been here for the last week. I've only just regained my hearing."
"Well, you two are certainly two peas in a pod. Two very odd peas in a very absurd pod."
"Could you imagine John's face if I showed up with a baby?" Sherlock laughed.
"Oh lord… you might do him in if that were to happen," Irene agreed.
Adele's eyes started to close, at which point, Sherlock took the bottle from her mouth and brought her up to his shoulder to burp her. "You're a pro at this," Irene observed.
"You'll get it eventually," Sherlock assured her, sensing that she was feeling somewhat inadequate in comparison to him.
"How do you know?"
"Maternal instincts started kicking in with you a few months ago. Sometimes it just takes a little while for things to settle in completely."
Irene didn't have anything to say in response to that. She just hoped he was right.
When Sherlock left for the airport, Irene and Adele were asleep on her bed. Quietly, he took his bags out into the hallway before coming back into the room and placing a kiss on Irene's forehead and on Adele's cheek. He was a little bothered by the fact that he didn't know when he'd be back, if he'd be back.
