A/N: The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.
The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
"Consulting detective?" Maria parrots. "Is that some sort of halfway between a police detective and a private one?"
"Not exactly," I reply. "I would go into detail, but it seems we have more pressing matters at hand. You are Jabez Wilson's daughter, correct?" She falls silent and stares facing the opposite wall. I notice her eyes starting to well up.
"Yes. I really only figured it out a week ago, but I've been in London for longer. I've been trying to talk to him, let him know what happened to Mother, let him see that I've grown up... But every time I start getting close, he distances himself from me. Like he's... I don't know, shunning me for some reason or another," she explains. "I wish I could have found out why. And now this happens to him!" she cries, picking up the newspaper with the police report. She puts it back down on the coffee table and composes herself with a small sigh. "Admittedly, I've been doing a bit of investigating myself. As soon as I noticed that some of our regular patrons started disappearing, I would personally wait on the tables with the League members. You know, see what I can pick up. I've heard terrible things no human should ever hear. Murders, mutilations, you name it. It's awful. I've never been on the receiving end of one of their attacks-" she knocks the coffee table with her knuckles "-But I know people who have. Rather... knew. None of them have lived. Which is why... which is... why..." she starts, but cannot finish.
"Which is why you're extremely upset about your father's fate," I offer. She nods.
"Please, Mike, you cannot tell anyone. Anyone. Promise me that no one else will know that I'm really Maria Wilson and not Maria Thatcher. Please," she begs. I find it curious that she still refers to me as Mike. She must not have heard of me or my line of work. I figured the 'consulting detective' title would give it away, but I suppose not.
"Of course, Maria. But you must promise me something in return."
"What's that?"
"Never tell anyone that I'm really a consulting detective, or even a detective at all. Understand?" She nods.
"Of course." She then smiles at me. It's a very warm smile. For some reason unknown to me, I end up smiling back. I figure it may be a reflex, like yawning after someone else has. I'll have to ask John about that... I then look at my phone. It's extremely late. I'd better not head back. I don't want to wake him up. I'll text him.
John, I'm sorry I'm texting so late, but I'm currently with-
Unfortunately, I can't finish my text. My phone shuts off. Out of battery. I knew I should have charged this one before leaving the flat! Stupid, stupid! My frustration must be visible to Maria, for she looks at me with a puzzled face.
"My phone died. I was trying to text my flatmate, let him know where I was," I explain.
"You can use mine, if you want. By the way, what time is it, anyway?" she asks.
"00:32," I answer.
"Really? That late? And the rain hasn't let up at all... Tell you what, why don't you stay here overnight?" she offers. I'm about to accept, when she starts blushing. "Ah, that is, I didn't mean anything by it. Just because I wouldn't want you catching cold or anything. That's all. Really," she says hurriedly. At first I'm confused by her statement, but then I realise what she might have accidentally implied.
"Thanks," is all I say. She then goes into her room. She quickly returns with a small mobile with a green casing around it. She hands it to me, and I begin to text John.
John, I'm sorry I'm texting so late, but I'm going to be staying overnight with Maria. I won't be back until morning. Don't worry, I'm fine. By the way, please locate my phone charger, as my phone has died. I'm using hers. Thanks. -MC
I sign it MC because she's standing near me, and still thinks that's my name. I send the message, and hope it reaches him.
"I'll bring you an extra pillow," she says, and I devise the most comfortable position on the couch for me to be able to sleep. Might be the only sleep I get in a while.
The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson
I think I hear my phone buzz, but I'm not sure, since it's hard to hear when you're on the top floor of a flat and relentless rain is pounding on the rooftop. I'm probably just imagining it, since I'm mostly asleep at this point. Little Sherlock seems perfectly content in his cot. I guess the rain is soothing for him. In all honesty, it's starting to have a soporific effect on me, too. I yawn, turn off my bad shoulder, and start to drift again...
When I open my eyes again, the rain had stopped. It's still late, but that figures. Sherlock's hungry, since he's crying. I wrestle my way out of my covers and take him downstairs, holding my boy to try to calm him a bit. Once I reach the sitting room, I look over to the couch. Mycroft is lying on it, umbrella propped against the armrest. He's actually asleep. Then again, I figure he sleeps better than his brother, crazy insomniac that he is.
I sit there in my armchair, in the dark, cradling Sherlock as he drinks from his bottle. I look away from him for a second and look up. In my line of vision, just barely visible thanks to the hour, is Sherlock's chair. Flatmate Sherlock, not baby Sherlock, mind. His violin case is propped up against the left side of it. I can almost imagine one of his little pieces, swimming through my head. I inadvertently start humming it. I close my eyes remembering. It was one of the ones he played before...
The memory of the falls snaps me back.
Even though he's really alive, I still can't stand to remember.
I look at little Sherlock again. The bottle is empty, his stomach is full, and thus he's fallen asleep again. He does look a bit like me. Or, at least my baby pictures. I wish Mary could have seen this. Seen our boy so content. I miss her.
I put the bottle in the sink to wash it in the morning, and head back to my room. Once I put my boy back to bed, I crawl into mine. I drift back to sleep with my boy on my mind.
The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
I awake the next morning a little stiff, but alright. I notice that a blanket has been put over me when there wasn't one when I went to sleep. Maria must have put it on me. I then smell something coming from the kitchen.
"Do you like eggs?" Maria calls from inside.
"Yes, but I can't stomach too many," I tell her. "Thank you for the blanket."
"You're welcome. You looked a bit cold." I then walk into the kitchen to see her making a couple of omelets. I admit, I probably don't eat as much as I ought to, and I rarely ever feel hunger, but these do look appetizing. She directs me to the small table in the kitchen and invites me to sit. A coffee pot is percolating near the stove top. She then puts each omelet on a plate, setting one down before me, the other by the other chair. The burners are then turned off, she pulls down a couple of mugs from a cupboard, and pours two cups of coffee. "How do you like your coffee?" she asks.
"Black, two sugars," I respond. She then does exactly that. For her own cup, she puts something in it I don't recognise.
"It's a mix of cinnamon and sugar. My mother would put cinnamon sugar on my toast when I was little. It kind of reminds me of her," she explains. I nod and we eat.
Once done, she puts the dishes in her small dishwasher. She then checks her mobile for the time.
"It's about seven. If you're worried about your flatmate, you probably should head on out," she says. I agree and we walk to the door.
"Thank you for your hospitality," I say. She smiles again.
"You're welcome. Feel free to stop by anytime. Take care of yourself, okay?" she says, and then she does something completely unexpected by me. She pecks me on the cheek. I'm taken aback, but I only show it for a second.
"I will," I reply as calmly as I can. She then starts blushing again.
"Sorry! I didn't mean to, I just... Well... See you."
I shoot her a smirk and head out the door, hailing a taxi on my way out.
Once I arrive back in 221b, I head up the seventeen steps. I then hear John's voice. He's talking with someone. The someone replies. It's my brother.
"John? What's Mycroft doing here?" I ask.
"I told you he'd be back. Oh! And, sofa," Mycroft announces.
"So, you got my text, then?" I ask. John doesn't answer right away.
"What text?" he asks sourly.
"I sent you a text! So, I sent it rather late, and it wasn't from my phone, but I did send one! Check your phone!" I answer a but frustrated.
"Not going to bother." Mycroft then stands.
"I understand that this is something between the two of you, and I really must be going. I have work to attend to. Good day." He then leaves. I sit down in my chair, trying to look at John. He stares at the fireplace. Brow furrowed. He's upset.
"John," I start, but he cuts in.
"Don't. You left. You left me and Greg in a dark club with a ton of murderers. By ourselves. No explanation."
"Is that what this is about? John, I did text-"
"Shut up! I don't care," he spits at me. I'm shocked. I sit back and let him speak. "Don't do this to me again, Sherlock. Don't just run off like you used to. I can't stand it. Seeing you disappear again." I then realise what this is about.
"I understand your worry, John. Next time, I will let you know beforehand exactly what I am doing and where I am going," I promise him calmly. This seems to do the job, as John relaxes his facial muscles and slumps back in his chair. "Now, then. About two o'clock this afternoon, I will be heading to my first meeting. Again, it's at the Crimson Lantern. There will only be four of them with me. I will take every precaution to guard myself. Including making sure there is a security camera within range, so Mycroft can see me, if that will ease your worry." John nods that it will. "Alright then. Now, can you please help me find my mobile charger? My phone died last night..." John clears his throat. I look up.
He's holding the charger with a small smirk on his face.