As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll fight with your best friend. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did. You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love.
~Author Unknown
John
His alarm is set for half past four but he wakes up at least few minutes before it rings. Through not completely closed curtains he can see that it's still dark outside and that it will be for a while.
He presses the backs of his hands into his eyes and tries not to groan, too loudly at the very least. God, what a nightmare. Actually, a parade of horrors and thrillers wrapped in, well, everything. Dissecting it with Elsa should be fun. Oh, who he's kidding, therapy had been an absolute hell in so far.
More often than not when he leaves Elsa's office, he feels absolutely exhausted both physically and emotionally. She's understanding but scarily perceptive and efficient in dissecting him. That's why while part of him doesn't want to do it he stays with her rather than going back to Ella.
It's not that Ella is a bad therapist, in fact, she came highly recommended when he was looking for one after he was released from the hospital all these years ago. She just isn't the right therapist for him, never had been.
And as much as part of him needs to be told that it's okay to not be okay he also needs someone who is capable of telling him off when he acts like a complete shit.
Over past week Elsa had been dissecting him bit by bit. The first day doesn't really count because it got interrupted. The following ones though?
He called her straight from the hospital where he left Sherlock after ensuring that no one will murder him in his sleep and consulting on his treatment with the doctors. She agreed to the emergency meeting the following day.
It was supposed to be an hour session that turned into one that lasted three hours and forty-three minutes most of which he spent hiding behind Rosie but it was very informative session, too informative. Hence the invite to another meeting on Sunday.
In conclusion to both on Monday morning he showed up in Sarah's office and after a long discussion they made arrangements to switch his full-time position to part time one with two set days a week. It's a Tuesday/Thursday arrangement, twelve hours on Tuesday and eight on Thursday.
Financially it's a step-down but one he can afford. He still has an army pension, granted it's not much but it's there. Then there's the flat which is… a complicated issue. Technically, it's his flat, his name is on the deed and he was the one who put the money on the table to buy it but they didn't exactly come from him. It was a bequest from the last will and testament left to him by not a really dead detective and if it wasn't for Mycroft's insistent pestering, he wouldn't even touch the money. But after five months of 'he wanted you to have it' and 'consider it honouring his memory for God's sake' as well as 'are you waiting for him to raise from the grave to tell you that you're an idiot for living in this conditions when you can afford better ones' he gave up.
Strictly speaking he didn't give up to Mycroft's pestering. Mycroft alone he could tune out and ignore whenever he showed up but when Mycroft left Sherlock came out and stayed and he wasn't sugar-coating the issue. He commented, quite frequently, on quality of the furniture, draft from the kitchen window, the state of communal bath, John's commute to work. He also called him an idiot at least once per day and repeated Mycroft's words in a verbatim.
Touching the money didn't feel right until Sherlock finally offered a solution to the problem that John could actually stomach. Use the money for buying a bigger, hospitable place within reasonable distance from the hospital and then instead of paying mortgage spending the amount of money that would eventually go to mortgage for aiding charities that helped various individuals with mental health. The charities varied from month to month but he always paid them dutifully.
At least until the not dead detective had risen from the grave. It had been a funny conversation, that one. It didn't happen immediately after Sherlock's return but it happened and predictably Sherlock was able to weasel out of every single attempt of having a conversation about that subject. But over the past two years with the exception of last month John was relentless. Sherlock could be avoiding the issue like a plague – except he wouldn't be avoiding the actual plague – but John Watson had his honour and he was planning to return the money he spent on the flat.
So, every month 'mortgage' payment had been deposited to a separate account he opened in his name only. Sometimes it was more, sometimes less but at the minimum he tried to put away 500 quid per month (but during his separation from Mary after she shot Sherlock at one point, he managed to put away 2000 quid).
Either way he will manage on what he has and if not, he can always fall back on the 'mortgage' account. It's not that convincing Sherlock to take the money would be easy. But right now, he has priorities other than money.
Rosie is his first priority. She's been home with him since he picked her from Stella and Ted late on Friday night after the whole Culverton mess. Monday morning, she spent in hospital's day-care. His supposedly first twelve hours shift on Tuesday that lasted only eight hours because he worked four on Monday she spent with Stella's and Ted's daughter who had Tuesdays off and didn't mind babysitting but it was done at the flat rather than at their place. Besides Sherlock got released from the hospital in the afternoon so it was better that he didn't have to worry about picking her up.
Then Sherlock's birthday happened. After a shitty start of the day with Rosie who was contrary to everything, starting from getting fresh nappy on her to dropping her of in hospital's day-care. Her morning tantrum was followed by a physically and mentally exhausting day at work (because he had to catch up with his paperwork before he would fully start working part-time) then it was topped with lunch in close company of a first class cow who had her opinions on how single father's should handle single fatherhood (basically by remarrying as soon as it was appropriate). It was all followed by a session with Elsa that in so far had proven to be the most exhausting one yet which in turn was followed with handling fussy Rosie to Mike's and Stella's daughter at the entrance to Regent's Park rather than at home because he needed to change Mrs Hudson on time so she could make it to her dental appointment.
The day had been steadily chipping away at him and Sherlock's earnestness to have him at Baker Street only made it worse. On one hand he acted as if nothing had happened, as if John hadn't laid a hand on him and proceed to beat him into a bloody pulp and on the other, he felt guilty. Guilty for decisions that weren't his own to make.
And John couldn't even bring himself to tell him that he and Rosie were the only innocent parties in the whole mess that was John's and Mary's marriage.
A marriage that shouldn't take place but it had.
A marriage that was built on lies told by both parties.
A marriage that didn't end only because they stupidly brought an innocent child into it without discussing the subject at all.
A marriage that made him feel powerless, useless and selfish in turns.
A marriage he was willing to throw away for a single smile coming from a woman whose face he couldn't even remember. He didn't even bother to remember who he was married to. Well, he did remember but even months after meeting E he wasn't sure what he was trying to accomplish by following through with the texting.
Suicidal ideation on a subconscious level? Did Mary even notice? He wasn't sure. He didn't have a chance to ask her that but on the other hand that fucked up message which she left to Sherlock… and her last words…
And he couldn't even bring himself to discuss it with Sherlock. He knew that he should but it was too early, he felt too raw, stretched too thin and off kilter. He needed time to stomach it and make some semblance of sense in his head before he would start this particular conversation with Sherlock.
But then the Woman and her infernal text happened and it spiralled from there. It wasn't technically a lie when he told Sherlock that he never knew when his birthday was. He didn't know it when they were living together because Sherlock never acknowledged the day when it happened. But the date was on his bloody gravestone for crying out loud. Then after he returned that particular day was spent at chasing a kidnaper of a five years old all over London and the chase itself lasted three days. The next one Sherlock spent zigging and zagging all over London too, thanks to his hunt for Moriarty's plan, he dragged John through some part of it too until he finally crashed and slept through thirty-six hours straight. So last year John promised himself that this year it would be different and he… He wasn't sure whatever or not the date just slipped from his mind or whatever or not he just didn't address it because he felt that he had no right to address it.
Irene Adler was the very last thing he needed that day and proved to be his breaking point. At first it was just a gnawing thought that Sherlock would have been better off in the company of someone whom he knew for who and what they were and not this pitiful, powerless, broken shell of a man masquerading as a best friend. One who was too blind to see who he was turning into and what he was doing to the people he supposedly cared for.
But over the course of the mostly one-sided conversation the wave that was threatening to sweep him off his feet finally crashed. It didn't sweep him right off his feet though, he had enough presence of mind left to not unload everything on Sherlock.
He didn't know why cheating on Mary was the first thing that came to his mind. Because it was a concrete proof that he wasn't the person Sherlock believed him to be? Because it had been Sherlock and not Mary to whom he was making that confession. It was Sherlock's high opinion and Sherlock's high standards of him that he was failing to meet. But he still wanted to, he knew that he didn't deserve a second chance but he desperately needed it and he found himself meaning every single word of it.
And Sherlock… while he was crying with Sherlock's arms around him, he promised himself that after giving Sherlock a couple more days to recover physically he would try to convince him to attend a therapy session with Elsa. He hated the idea of using a referee to help him fix their friendship but it was better than their usual tactic of ignoring the issue until it eventually went away or ended up blowing right into their faces.
So, the nightmare isn't really surprising. Various parts of it had been festering under the surface for weeks, years even. Also, various parts of it he already dreamed both over the years and recently.
Still, it's the most fucked up nightmare he had in so far and it proves that he should raise with Sherlock the issue of the mysterious brother. Not that he has a right to ask about it, he knows that he doesn't, especially if it's something Sherlock doesn't want to talk about at all. But at the very least he needs to put it out there and trust Sherlock to make the decision about sharing or not sharing the information with him.
Then maybe he should bring up therapy and gently suggested that a joint session could help them find their footing in the aftermath of all of it. He won't press if Sherlock will say no but it's another thing, he needs to put out there because someone needs to make Sherlock see that there's something seriously wrong with his self-esteem.
He contemplates going back to sleep. Rosie usually doesn't wake before half past five, at times even six and he isn't scheduled to show at Elsa's office until eleven and at Baker Street at one o'clock.
Yesterday before going to bed he promised himself to sleep on the idea of bringing Rosie to Baker Street. On one hand Sherlock's hopeful expression when he asked about seeing her soon nearly made him bring her over yesterday just because Sherlock asked and on the other hand Rosie is Rosie. She's perfect but she's also getting scarily mobile and quite loud on the top of a Watson temperament. As much as he loves her, he doesn't think that he should unleash Rosie on Sherlock for maybe next few days.
He's still unsure. On one hand there is having two most important people in his life in the same space while on the other there's the thought that maybe they should start with smaller doses. An hour or two tops and his turn to watch Sherlock is supposed to take between five to six hours. Sherlock might not be ready for that.
Suddenly he finds himself torn from his thoughts by the ringing of his phone and he dreads answering it even before he looks at the name of the caller and his anxiety only increases when he sees that it's Mrs Hudson. A call this early doesn't bode well at all.
He accepts the call and says, "Yes, Mrs H."
"John," she says calmly. "Did I wake you? I was hoping…"
"Is it Sherlock?" he doesn't let her finish.
"Oh," she breathes out. "No, he's fine. He was still asleep when I checked up on him. It's not Sherlock but it's kind of connected."
"Okay," he mumbles.
"You remember that I was supposed to stay with him this morning because Greg and Molly are working and you have prior arrangements?" she asks slowly.
"You can't make it, can you?" he asks, feeling slightly calmer. "How early you need to leave?"
"Immediately," she sighs heavily. "My niece called an hour ago. My sister had a heart-attack. She says that it's a bad one," she pauses as if she was weighing her next words. "That girl had always been prone to colorizing and blowing things out of proportion in the past but…"
"… you're worried that this is this one time when she isn't," he finishes for her. "Go," he tells her. "I'll look after him, it's not a problem. Just a quick question. He said yesterday when I was leaving that he's heading to bed…"
"He had," she confirms. "He was sleeping by eleven when I checked up on him and if he keeps to his schedule he should sleep until seven, even eight," she answers the question he didn't ask.
"That's good," he tells her. "I'll try to get there slightly earlier than that. Be careful on the road."
"Oh John, I'm always a careful driver," she tells him.
"I noticed," he breaths out because he remembers the last time when he saw her driving.
She knocked over a rubbish bin and was followed by just two police cars and a chopper.
"Oh, hush you," she quips as if she knew what he's thinking. "I'll call when I will know something more," she says before she hangs up.
There goes catching up on more sleep, he thinks as he pushes down the duvet before he stands up and stretches himself. He goes to Rosie's bedroom to check up on her. Blessedly she's still asleep and not even wet, which he counts as another blessing.
On his way to the bathroom he checks the time and shakes his head. No wonder why she's still asleep. It's barely four in the morning and she no longer requires feeding at three.
Quickly he showers and dresses up for the day before he heeds to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Coffee and toast for him and formula with some banana mush for Rosie on the side. It's a breakfast that goes down easily with her. She can even eat a banana without mushing it but he prefers to not give her that the very first thing in the morning.
While puttering around the kitchen he ponders what he should do about Rosie today. Originally Tina, Stella's and Ted's daughter agreed to watch her in the afternoon today. She was supposed to take her for a walk in the park before returning to the flat. But Tina has classes in the morning…
He could drop her off at Ted's and Stella's but that would be going against his decision to keep Rosie at the flat when he isn't there. Sure, it could be an exception but he doesn't want to start making exceptions. That's how it all started. Just for the night turned into just for two and before he realised what had happened, he was seeing his daughter on weekends. That's not an option.
That leaves taking Rosie to Baker Street with him and depending on how the initial meeting will go he can either keep her there with him for the rest of the day or let Tina take her after her classes will end.
Sherlock will probably appreciate her visit no matter how long it would last.
Once he has the breakfast prepared and Rosie's diaper-bag properly stocked with everything he's going to need (and hopefully few things he won't need, like four changes of clothes) he checks on her again and finds her wet and stirring.
He changes her quickly and efficiently before she works herself into a snit over being hungry. Sherlock once said while he and Rosie were temporarily living at Baker Street after Mary pulled a runner that Rosie is a true Watson and when John pressed him to elaborate that he only said that they were both grumpy when hungry. At the time whatever rebuttal John had on the tip of his tongue was lost by the sheer distraction that was Sherlock holding Rosie up to burp her.
He remembers wishing that it would never end. Moriarty and his posthumous game be damned this were his two favourite people in the place that always felt like home.
Maybe someday it could be home once more, he thinks and shakes his head, pushing that traitorous thought away. Not now and not without resolving the multitude of issues between him and Sherlock.
Baby steps, Watson.
The actual baby in the equation eats her banana and her formula without much of a fuss which is a good thing. She coos to herself in her high-chair while he's cleaning after breakfast and she doesn't even try to fight him while he puts her into that pink, fluffy monstrosity that Mary adored so much that she bought several of them in different sizes. John just found them ridiculous, much like Sherlock, who once or twice (out of Mary's earshot) muttered something about instilling proper sense of fashion as one of godfather's duties.
Rosie was steadily growing out of the biggest one of them (not completely yet but John had doubts that she would hold out with growing out of it until the summer) so who knew, maybe that shopping trip was going to happen sooner rather than later. At least a planned shopping trip would keep Sherlock from sneaking new clothes that couldn't be returned because the prat was not only accurate in his estimations when it came to clothing Rosie (no surprises there) but he also had a habit of sneaking them into her wardrobe or diaper bag already washed and missing tags.
Sherlock was also excellent with putting Rosie to sleep. One afternoon, probably as some sort of experiment, he managed to put her to sleep for a nap and then rouse her again just by playing the violin. Rosie loved the violin, the sound as well as tracking the movements of the bow.
Once they're both dressed, he almost puts her in the carrier. He's been using it steadily since she returned home for both longer and shorter trips. Elsa refers to it as self-appointed punishment for being an absentee father and tells him that he's allowed to put her down in a car-seat or in a pushchair in circumstances when using one seems like a more sensible choice than lugging around about twenty pound baby at the front and about other twenty pounds or more in purchases.
The thing is, he abhors Rosie's pushchair, always had. It's one of these egg-like things, very unstable and has non-existent shopping basket. Not to mention it's pink and not just pink but in an actually eye-sore shade of neon pink. It was Mary's choice, supposedly hip and highly recommended.
It was useful for as long as Rosie needed the basinet. Since then it had been stored in the boot of the car, which he also rarely uses. He always abhorred how big it was for the two of them but it was Mary who paid for it, without a doubt with the dirty money, he knows that now. But back then, because it was Mary's money that paid for it, he just let her chose everything: brand, model, colour, interior. If someone asked him about his opinion on the matter, he would have bought something smaller than that Audi station wagon if he had to buy a car at all. A Fiat most probably, a 500 or a Panda and definitely not in black because finding that car in a carpark was always a horror even though he had a very good sense of direction. White wouldn't be good either, too popular colour. Blue maybe or yellow, that would have been much easier to find in the carpark.
Which would be better, that black monstrosity with a car-seat or just her carrier and diaper-bag?
If he intends to keep Rosie all day at Baker Street, he's going to need food for her. She isn't a big fan of stuff that comes out of jar, nor is he for that matter. Desserts she's fine with but anything more complicated than a fruit mush is considered inedible. Overall, it's a good thing because no matter how its producers call their food safe and healthy, they're still filled with preservatives. That leaves cooking and cooking at Baker Street for the matter. When he checked Sherlock's fridge yesterday while he was storing away leftover takeaway it didn't look too bad. At least too bad by Sherlock's standards of the amount of food kept in the fridge. There was a block of cheese, some strawberry jam, a few eggs, some milk which would have been enough for tea…
Car it is then. He puts Rosie's carrier in the diaper-bag, just in case and brings her to the car.
It's nearing six by the time he gets to Marylebone and he loses some time at driving around looking for a Tesco Express that opens at six rather than seven.
He gets the shopping done in a record time but his good progress with the shopping gets halted at the register. While he's with Rosie he doesn't want to use self-check outs and the only proper register that's open is manned by the slowest cashier on earth and before him are two idiots that argue with the cashier pretty much about everything, from cost of the bread to whatever or not the tomatoes they picked are organic or not.
By the time he finally leaves Tesco it's twenty to seven already and he still needs to get to Baker Street and park the car around the back. Luckily, he still has the complete set of keys to 221 Baker Street which includes the keys to the back entrance as well as Mrs Hudson's flat since it's the only entry point from the back and there's no parking allowed in the front.
It could be around seven by the time he finally crosses through Mrs Hudson's kitchen, locking both doors behind himself because that's how he found them. Once he's done with the door, he stops to adjust his hold on Rosie as well as the diaper-bag and allows his ears to strain for the sounds coming from upstairs.
Sherlock is definitely up and puttering around the kitchen, hopefully making tea rather than cooking heroine because while they cleaned the flat completely it's Sherlock and who knows how many new hiding spots he managed to find when no one was keeping an eye on him.
John knows that he should announce himself and that doing so would have been a sign of trust but part of him, quite large party of him actually wants to see Sherlock before he has time to school his features.
He makes his way upstairs quietly to the accompaniment of click and clack of utensils. Few steps in he can see that while the door to the living room are closed the one leading to the kitchen is open wide and the overhead kitchen lamp is lit.
He makes his way to the first-floor landing in the accompaniment of running water and stops dead in his tracks just as he's about to call 'good morning' because the sight before him renders him speechless.
Sherlock is already dressed, though not his usual attire. Instead of suit pants he's wearing dark jeans and the untucked shirt he's wearing over them looks nothing like one of his dress shirts, but that's not the most surprising part of his attire. It's a turquoise shawl that Sherlock saw at the marketplace while they were in Morocco and decided to purchase it as his mother's Christmas present. The shawl itself wouldn't have been surprising even in that colour because Sherlock likes to wrap himself in things with at least minimal dramatic flair. Usually it's one of his dressing gowns or his Belstaff and even though he prefers to tie his own scarves in Italian knot he used to be quite fond of wrapping himself into anything remotely wrappable starting from bedsheets and ending on the plethora of blankets and afghans.
It's the way the shawl is wrapped around him that's wrong, not over both of his shoulders but over his right shoulder and diagonally across his back but then a small hand raises over Sherlock's shoulder and pats him there.
It must be another hallucination; John decides as he closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly. He opens them again to see Sherlock make his way to the fridge and sees the owner of the hand strapped to Sherlock's left side.
It's an actual baby. It's about Rosie's age, give or take a couple of weeks, at the very least judging from the distance and the fact that it's mostly swaddled in the shawl. It has curly mop of dark hair, lighter than Sherlock's but darker than Rosie's. From the distance John can't see the kid's eyes very well but what he can actually see is the easiness with which Sherlock sticks a spoon of mush into the child's mouth and removes it while the baby munches on it before he pours the water into the teapot.
Meanwhile John clears his throat because if there's one thing that requires a proper explanation it's definitely the baby in Sherlock's arms.
Sherlock places the kettle down on the counter before he starts turning away from the counter over his right shoulder. He's smiling as he does that but as he takes the sight of John and consequently Rosie in his smile first turns into a frown and then after a single blink into this blank, usually expressionless 'I'm processing things' face.
As Sherlock does that the baby's left hand swats him on the nose before it moves to pat his beard before the child tries to reach over Sherlock's shoulder for something on the counter. That appears to snap Sherlock out enough to move slightly so he can retrieve whatever the baby wants from him.
Oh, the bottle, John realizes as Sherlock handles the baby the bottle. It picks it up when Sherlock offers it and chugs at the remains of what looks like milk while Sherlock looks at it with an intensity that he would have given to a bomb if he suddenly found himself strapped to one.
John almost smiles at the sight, almost. But there are more important things right now.
"Sherlock," says John finally which makes Sherlock turn his head back look at him. "Would you mind…" he pauses and clears his throat. "Who's that?" he asks finally.
Sherlock looks from John to the baby strapped in his arms and then back to John again before he answers blankly, "I can honestly say that I don't have even the faintest idea."
"Okay," says John slowly as he bends slightly to place the shopping bags and the diaper-bag on the ground.
Come to think about it, he should also get Rosie out of that ball of fluff before she will start fussing.
He does just that while not taking his eyes from Sherlock who looks between the baby in his arms and Rosie that gets unveiled from her outwear.
Oh. It suddenly clicks in John's mind and he can practically feel his ears burning with shame.
It had nearly been two months since Sherlock last saw Rosie and with both babies appearing to be so close in age it's no wonder he took the other baby for Rosie even though the two looked nothing alike.
"So how did this happen?" asks John once he picks Rosie up.
"I woke up and found her in my chair," answers Sherlock, his voice still sounds a little off.
"Her?" presses John.
"We had an accident," explains Sherlock. "Of the how it got up there variety," he adds after a moment. "I thought…" he shakes his head.
"Honest mistake and my fault on that," says John quickly.
"Lack of the diaper-bag threw me off," sighs Sherlock. "I should have questioned that but she's been pretty absorbing."
"I bet," hums John. "Would you terribly mind?" he asks as he walks around the table and stops right in front of Sherlock, shifting Rosie slightly to make the transfer easier.
Sherlock blinks slowly but he wraps his right arm around her middle and pulls her close to him.
He looks kind of adorable and if the situation wasn't as bizarre as it is John would have stopped to take a photo of them. So, he resorts to kissing Rosie's downy hair as he gently runs his right hand over the other girl's dark curls which makes her look at him so he can clearly see her green eyes.
Good. More data. He smiles at the man in front of him before he makes his way to the living-room to inspect it closely.
On the hanger on the door he finds a pink jacket. There's a baby scarf and a cap stuffed into one of the sleeves and into its pocket are stuffed baby gloves. No diaper bag in sight.
He inspects the area around the sofa closely. There's nothing stuffed under or around or behind it but as he looks towards the fireplace from the sofa, he founds something dark stuffed behind Sherlock's chair.
He heads over there just as Sherlock comes into the living-room, carefully balancing Rosie and the other girl in his arms. John bends over Sherlock's chair to pick up the bag from behind it. It had been tucked there rather closely and surprised by the sudden appearance of the baby Sherlock had to miss it.
The bag doesn't look like a typical diaper-bag, more like a mid-sized, black duffel bag. Briefly he inspects it from the outside before he places it on the table to inspect its contents. The bag is most filled with clean nappies, several bottles, a pack of baby wipes. It also holds a box of formula and few changes of clothes and a pair of shoes. There's also a light-brown teddy bear which appearance causes cooing behind John's back so he quickly sticks it out in Sherlock's general direction as he continues to rummage through the bag one handed.
Suddenly he comes upon three DVD discs, each in a separate box. The surface of the first two is blank but the third one is signed with a marker. The sign on it reads:
MISS YOU
His mind immediately goes to Mary's message in his dream and the actual one she left behind. He has no idea how the other little girl fits into all of this but if Mary is involved the next time, he'll see Mycroft the older Holmes would be missing all of his teeth.
"Well, fuck you," he mutters as softly as possible as he inspects first the box and then the disk itself under different angles.
There are no clean prints that he can see on both sides of either. But he sort of expected that after the initial message.
He takes a look at Sherlock who looks between the disk and John and shakes his head before he grimaces slightly when Rosie's knee hits him in the ribs.
John places the bag on the other chair then he pulls Sherlock's laptop closer and opens it before he takes his little kicking menace from Sherlock. As the laptop wakes John sits down in the chair while Sherlock perches on the armrest of his chair.
"You don't think…" starts Sherlock softly as he gestures at the girl in his arms.
"You were there," John reminds him. "And while I only attended only one ultrasound, I assure you that I wouldn't be able to miss a second baby in there."
"Point," mutters Sherlock. "Though after all of this I wouldn't be surprised if that happened."
"Neither would I," admits John as he plugs in the DVD. "But I'm trusting my medical experience on that matter and I'm sure that there wasn't a second baby."
The DVD launches and the player opens on the screen.
It opens up to a weirdly familiar setting. There's a single window on the wall on the other side of the room and it's big enough to cover a little more than a third of the wall. On the left side of the screen is a white mantelpiece and by the far end on the right side there's a single, thin, white heater. The size and the setting of the room reminds him of his old bedsit. But it can't be his old bedsit, can it be? There are hundreds if not thousands of rooms like that all over London and it doesn't even have to be in London.
But regardless of the niggling similarities with his old bedsit the room looks nothing like his old bedsit. The walls are painted bright yellow, the curtains around the window are drawn open, the tiny windowsill is filled knickknacks, mostly books. Before the window itself there's pull-away futon that looks like it came from IKEA. In fact, most of the furniture looks like it came out of IKEA. On the left side of the window next to the mantelpiece there's a bookstand that moonlights as a bookshelf and TV centre. The portion of the wall where the heater is located had been left open but right next to it there's a small cluttered desk that looks white under all the clutter on it. Next to the desk there's a big floor to ceiling wardrobe with sliding doors. One of the panes is in white wood while the other is a mirror. The table which in his own bedsit was right under the kitchen wall is a little off to the left in the corner while the area under….
"I think that we're stuck on pause," says Sherlock gently.
"Right," says John quickly in what he hopes is an apologetic tone before he shakes his head and presses space bar again.
The video keeps playing for a few seconds before someone enters the screen from the right side of the camera.
Kitchen, his mind supplies.
It's a woman. Her curly hair is blue and pulled back into a messy bun. In her arms she's holding a baby with slightly familiar dark mop of curls and roughly about the same size as the one in Sherlock's arms. Then she lowers the baby gently into what John hopes is a crib just below the breakfast bar out of the camera view. It's a weird place for a crib but it's far away from the window and the TV so maybe that's why it's there.
Soon enough the woman in the video straightens and leans against barely visible railing of the crib. She quietly clears her throat and looks down, most probably at the baby, before she raises her head and looks straight in the camera.
Either by accident or instinct John hits the space bar again so the video freezes like that and he finds himself staring at her face. From what little that can be seen through her fringe of her forehead, above her slightly curved thick eyebrows, it's a high one and her face is oblong and slightly angular. She has high-cheekbones and a slight curve to her chin as well as what appears to be a straight nose that both seems a tad too big for her face and well-proportioned. But what draws his attention the most is her lips, quite thin for her face but with a clearly outlined cupid's bow.
It takes all of his power to just not look over his shoulder to stare at Sherlock because that's got to be some cosmic joke and there has to be something about her face that doesn't remind John of the man.
But no, the longer he stares at her the more similarities he can see. Her lips for starters. Then her hair, far longer than Sherlock's and obviously dyed blue but her eyebrows are dark, similar in thickness but slightly fuller and curved. Also, blue or not her hair is curly and her fringe is styled to shorten her high forehead (something which Sherlock sometimes does and sometimes forgets about). The nose is also Sherlock's, probably a little shorter. But what really makes him realise that he's most likely staring at Sherlock's daughter is her eyes. Same size, same shape and from what he can tell probably even the same colour. It's hard to make it out from the distance and with the shitty lighting in the room but her eyes appear to be green or grey or blue or some variation of either of them. The one thing he's sure about their colour is that they aren't brown. Just like Sherlock's because if there's one thing John can tell with utmost certainty about Sherlock's eyes is that they aren't brown, as for the rest the colour varies depending on the time of the day. For most of the time it's some mixture of green and grey but in certain lights they appear blue.
The girl in the video? Most likely Sherlock's daughter.
Or a sister, his treacherous mind supplies.
She looks too fresh faced for a twin and if he had one… Right, probably not a good way to go down that road.
"How…" he hears Sherlock whisper behind him and Sherlock pauses to swallow. "How old she appears to you?"
"Between eighteen and twenty-five," John sighs. "But she might be thirty and has an excellent beauty regime," he pauses.
But if she's thirty and can afford an excellent beauty regime then she should definitely be able to afford something better than a bedsit with a baby, he thinks but doesn't say that.
He waits a few seconds more before he turns around towards Sherlock. The other man is leaning forwards slightly. His right hand is on his knee while his left arm supports the baby in the sling. But his eyes are completely focused on the face on the screen, his mouth slightly open.
He's thinking, calculating the odds, John thinks.
"Sherlock?" John asks gently. "Do you have a sister?"
"I…" Sherlock starts and pauses, "I'm not sure," he finishes after a beat.
How can you be unsure about an answer to a yes or no question, thinks John.
"There's a…" Sherlock starts again. "I used to be sure about a lot of things about my childhood but I'm…" he pauses. "I'm not sure anymore," he pauses again. "A year ago, my answer would have been a definite no but…"
"She's younger than you," points out John. "Significantly, I should add. She looks closer to twenty rather than thirty."
"There's that," sighs Sherlock heavily. "Body more of a teenager rather than a grown woman. Nineteen to twenty-one. Can't be older."
"Why are you so certain?" asks John gently.
Sherlock remains silent for a longer while before he looks towards the kitchen and then back at John before he grimaces.
"Drugs were always a problem," he admits finally. "For as long as I can remember," he sighs heavily. "Antianxiety medication and mild sleeping pills in my childhood. They went away around the time I started playing violin. It helped me think, ground myself…"
"Coping mechanism," nods John. "What for?"
"That's the part I'm uncertain of," Sherlock grimaces. "What I'm certain of is that several months prior to my eight birthday I participated in some sort of accident that caused extensive damage. Could have been a car accident or I could have fallen out of a window. I'm not sure. I remember casts, both legs and arms, ugly walls of the hospital room, my eight birthday there," he pauses. "Not being able to move," he continues, "and this overwhelming boredom."
"Your parents never clarified the origin of that accident?" asks John curiously.
"That's the worst part," mutters Sherlock. "Everything about that stay I had to deduce myself," he grimaces. "I used to believe that it was a car accident, that I ran into the road following my dog, Redbeard," he pauses and absentmindedly rubs his chin over the baby's downy head.
"But?" John prompts him gently as he's trying to not remember the dream he had.
"We never had a dog," says Sherlock blankly. "Daddy is allergic, badly enough for the dog to be a problem rather than an inconvenience if it lived with us. There was a dog and it was called Redbeard but it belonged to another kid I used to play with. Couldn't remember him until recently… Probably a traumatic association with the accident or a separate issue, I'm not sure. The last…" he grimaces.
"You felt as if the last binge triggered something," finishes John. "Opened a door to which you didn't have access before."
"I'm not going to repeat it," says Sherlock quickly, too quickly for John to like it. "Anytime soon or ever for that matter. Willingly at the very least," he mutters. "The hell that comes after a high isn't worth it."
"I'm glad to hear that," sighs John. "Why did you do that?"
He asks before he can stop himself. He has his suspicions but part of him wants to hear it from the man himself.
Sherlock lowers his head and looks at the baby in his arms as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. The baby coos at the attention and swats his beard. It looks ridiculous on him but weirdly it fits his attire and the whole picture of exhausted father that has no energy to shave while running after the baby.
It's not a true picture. The baby had been there for maybe a few hours at the most. She couldn't be there when Mrs Hudson checked up on Sherlock around four before she left because if she was then Mrs Hudson would have addressed her presence during the phone call.
"You…" Sherlock starts and swallows, "you aren't going to like the answer."
"I didn't like seeing you like this," sighs John.
"But you did, see me, I mean," sighs Sherlock. "Which is more…" his voice cracks. "If I could I would do everything to change what happened. Everything. But I couldn't, I can't…" he chokes. "I know that it's not what you want…"
The shame that fills him up nearly floods him.
"I'm sorry," whispers John.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," says Sherlock earnestly. "It was my fault. All of it. I made a vow."
John shakes his head and absentmindedly pats Rosie's leg.
"So did I," he sighs finally. "And mine unlike yours was sanctioned by the Anglican church," he snorts softly before he clears his throat. "I, John, take you Mary, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish; from this day forward until death do us part," he recites on practically one breath.
"I heard it," says Sherlock softly. "I was there."
"At least yours was sincere," sighs John.
"And yours wasn't?" asks Sherlock with a frown.
"I thought that it was," grimaces John. "And therein lies the problem. I thought that I knew the woman I married. I thought that we were on the same page on certain subjects," he pats Rosie's leg again. "I will never regret having Rosie but if we really talked about having children she most probably wouldn't be there."
"You never wanted to have children?" asks Sherlock softly.
"Not wanted as much as not planned to have them," sighs John. "My parents were terrible role models. They married too young and were ill-equipped in how to work as a married couple as much as parents. It wasn't so bad when Dad was in the army but after he was discharged," he grimaces. "I won't bore you to death with the details but they both eventually lost their rights to rising me and Harry. Aunt Katherine took us in after, she and my grandfather were the only ones that gave a damn but he couldn't do much and Harry…" he grimaces. "Children wasn't something I was thinking about when I was a young adult. I had Harry, med-school and the army to worry about. Then there were my relationships…" he grimaces. "None of them got serious enough or lasted long enough for me to consider marriage, let alone having children."
"I hate to point out that you can have one without the other," says Sherlock quietly.
"Point," snorts John softly. "But I was always paranoid about it and the very few accidents that happened I was very careful to ensure that they would lead to nothing," he adds grimly. "And each and every one of them had ended whatever relationship in which it happened. Apparently, my unwillingness to accept that 'happy'," he accents the word, "accidents happen and their consequences was enough of a proof that I wasn't committed enough," he grimaces. "And with Mary… I just assumed that at her age, if she really wanted to have children then she would surely have one by the time I met her. Well, as we learned the hard way there was a lot of things, I didn't know about her when I married her."
"Sorry," sighs Sherlock.
"I'm not," shrugs John. "I'm not sorry about having my blinders torn away. What I'm sorry for is that you had to nearly die in the process."
"It wasn't that bad," says Sherlock with a grimace.
"Bad doesn't even cover that," mutters John sourly. "You were flatlining for hours, Sherlock. The doctors working on you actually gave up," he whispers. "I don't know what kind of a miracle you pulled or how many of your cat lives you used up back then but within a week from that you gave yourself a heart-attack. Then few months later you gave yourself a nearly lethal overdose."
"It wasn't…" Sherlock starts.
"And now this," John interrupts him. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock. This isn't a risk that comes with the job. It's not a whoops I miscalculated and got myself stabbed in the arm or got myself brained on a mantlepiece," he adds fiercely and pauses for a deeper breath before he continues. "One day help will come too late, one day your hand will slip and you will be dead. Not much of a problem for you since you'll be dead but let me tell you this, Sherlock. Your death doesn't happen to you, it happens to all the people you leave behind who have to figure out how they're going to live their lives without you in it. I lived through it once and let me tell you one thing, just one thing. The only thing that kept me from following you was the thought that if I had, if I took my own life back then was that if I did it, then I would be admitting that you were a fraud…"
"John," whispers Sherlock. "You never…"
"Followed through?" finishes John grimly. "No, but I came pretty damn close. Sleeping pills and whisky," he grimaces. "I miscalculated the dosage once. Would have probably succeeded if Greg didn't choose to come around to pick some of the old notes. He called the ambulance and pulled whatever favour he had left to keep it from my official records. He took my gun away after that. Guilty tripped me to the hell and back too. That's how it works Sherlock, if you go down, I go down with you."
"You have Rosie," whispers Sherlock. "You wouldn't do that to her."
John snorts before he whispers, "Would I? I kept handing her over to everyone who offered to take her and few people that didn't. Few hours first, then a day, then two. Before I realised, I was seeing my own daughter on weekends and several times I caught myself wondering with whom she was on the day when I was supposed to pick her up. What kind of a father does it make me, Sherlock?"
"A grieving one," says Sherlock softly after a brief moment of hesitation.
"A lousy one," snorts John. "As involved as my own mother became at some point. And the drinking? That's more down my father's alley. But unlike both of them I had enough sense left in me that by the time I started thinking about acquiring sleeping pills instead of guilty tripping one of my colleagues into writing a prescription I started looking for a therapist," he adds sourly. "You're right, I can't do it to Rosie but in the darkest hours I keep thinking that she would have been better off without me."
"Preposterous idea," objects Sherlock vehemently. "You're the best person I know."
"If I'm the best person you know then I'm really worried about what kind of people you do know," says John with a sigh. "Then again, I know some of them and I know that some of them do deserve that adjective far more than I do."
Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but John doesn't let him say anything.
"That's why I couldn't let you in," he says heavily. "You built me up into someone I'm not, Sherlock. A kind, decent, forgiving human being with a clear moral compass. I'm not that guy, I never had been. I'm spiteful, I keep grudges, I have a hair-trigger temper, I live in a constant fear of turning into my father but for most of my life I did nothing to stop it," he pauses. "I led the mother of my daughter into a suicide and when she was dying in my arms, I did nothing to help her. More so, I dared to feel relieved that she was dead and instead of acting like a decent…" he pauses to clear his throat, "semi-decent human being about it I took it out on the only person who was trying to help."
Sherlock swallows audibly before he says, "You loved Mary."
"I loved the idea of Mary," admits John softly. "The stability she represented, one that I desperately needed at the time and I… I thought that I loved her," he sighs. "But it wasn't her that I loved, it was the image she presented and that Mary died the very moment she turned her gun on you and pulled the trigger. That Mary died by her own hand back then, she died again in the aquarium, this time for real," he pauses to take a deep breath. "You're the most perceptive man I know. Other people?" he pauses. "I could con other people into believing that I was grieving but you? If I let you through that door you would have seen right through me and I couldn't let that happen. All you needed was one look at that man and you would have seen what I saw in the mirror."
"A man with a complicated marriage," says Sherlock softly.
"A lingering ghost of Hamish Watson," whispers John. "A monster that murdered his wife."
"Your dad?" asks Sherlock softly. "Your mum?"
John nods slowly.
"How?" asks Sherlock as he leans forward. "When?"
"Bludgeoned her to death with his bare hands one day. He showed up drunk to work and they let him go. So, he returned home early and found her packing her bags because Harry finally managed to convince her to move away from him and fill for a divorce," answers John grimly. "He's up for a parole this year and I'm fervently hoping that on the day of the parole hearing he'll have a massive heart-attack."
"I can always convince Mycroft to find a way to ship him off to Australian Outback," offers Sherlock earnestly. "He won't be coming within a mile of Rosie or you."
"Or them," adds John as he points from the girl in Sherlock's arms to the screen. "We neglected them for too long. She's your daughter, isn't she?"
Sherlock sighs heavily as he runs circles over the girl's back.
"That's the only logical explanation," he admits. "Considering her age. Mummy had me at thirty-one and in theory in the following nineteen years she could have another child…" he pauses and scratches his beard with his right hand. "In fact, I believe that she might have another child after me but…"
"It isn't a girl," says John before he can stop himself.
Sherlock blinks at him as he opens and closes his mouth.
"Why did you say that?" he asks finally.
"Something Mycroft said while you were running around London," admits John. "It didn't sit right with me when I first heard it but I dismissed it until I came here from the hospital. He kept denying it but something in his body language kept throwing me off."
"What he said exactly?" asks Sherlock pensively.
"The fact that I'm his brother changes absolutely nothing. It didn't the last time and I assure you it won't be… with Sherlock," John says trying his best to emulate Mycroft's words in tone and cadence.
Sherlock frowns and he says slowly, "You got a brother from just that?"
"Could have been a sister," John concedes with a grimace. "Extremely sexist of me to assume that considering that I married a female assassin but…"
"Instinctual," Sherlock interrupts him. "You probably never had a chance to see Mycroft around females, aside of Mary and even that was for a very brief period of time. It's not a wonder that your mind took a leap in that direction," he adds quickly and pauses. "It might be a correct one but…" he grimaces. "It's all muddled, I can't tell what's a memory, what's a dream and what's a hallucination. What I'm sure of is that when I met Redbeard for the first time, I was accompanied by an adult male but it couldn't have been Daddy…" he pauses. "Then there's this weird age gap. My parents got married in 1964 when Mummy was eighteen years old but Mycroft wasn't born until 1970."
"That doesn't have to mean anything," suggests John. "Maybe they wanted to be responsible about having children."
"Or maybe they had to get married so early," says Sherlock simply. "Their marriage was a mésalliance. The Holmes family was upper middle class, there were some tittles attached to it as well as some properties but I never paid attention to that because it wasn't going to affect me in the least and even if certain circumstances did change Mummy was the last one of the four children and most of her siblings procreated before she got married. Daddy on the other hand was a penniless soldier that spent his earnings on supporting his grandmother in rising his younger siblings during the periods when his father wouldn't bother to do so. The last thing he needed at the time in the terms of a financial responsibility was a young wife."
"Point," admits John. "Down to earth but a valid reason."
"Late 1962 or 1963 to early 1964," says Sherlock. "That would make him about thirteen to fifteen by the time I was born. Depending on his character and willingness to participate in looking after me he would have been anyone from an occasional minder to another parental figure. Especially if there was another one after me. But that gap couldn't be this big," he motions at the screen. "I would notice it if Mummy got pregnant after I left the hospital so if she had, if there was another child after me it had to be a baby by the time when I ended in hospital."
"Why do you believe that there was another baby after you?" asks John gently.
Sherlock grimaces before he says softly, "Rosie."
"What about her?" John prompts him.
"Her name," sighs Sherlock. "It kept bothering me, it jarred for some reason. I thought that it was because of Mary and her complete disregard for your choices but maybe it went deeper than that. It never bothered me in adult women or girls my age when I was growing up but the moment my mind was presented with concept of a baby Rose it started to jar."
"As if someone showed you a door you couldn't access before," offers John. "What if it's her?" he asks as he nods towards the screen.
"It could be," agrees Sherlock slowly. "But I don't know," he shakes his head. "If my age estimation is right and it should be because that's the only point…" he pauses. "She would have to be born between April 1995 and March 1996," he points at the screen.
"That's a very narrow gap," says John.
"That's the only point in my life when I had sex with anyone that I could have gotten pregnant," says Sherlock grimly.
"That's oddly specific," says John slowly.
"It was an oddly specific period of time in my life," sighs Sherlock. "I don't remember the starting point," he pauses. "The only thing about it that I remember is that at one point it was beginning of the summer and I was at school and the next…" he grimaces, "I was on the streets and the seasons changed. I didn't pay attention to that at the time, I can't even recall if the first things I remember from being on the streets happened during one day or over a longer period of time. What I do remember is the ever-present fear of being followed and the inkling that if I got found something bad would happen."
"Drug induced psychosis?" offers John softly.
"Possibly," agrees Sherlock. "So, I kept moving. I panhandled when I could but it didn't give much. Worked menial jobs that could be done quickly if someone was brave enough to offer them to me," he pauses and looks at his feet. "But for most of the time I the easiest money I made…" he pauses again.
John knows what's coming. His own situation never got so bad for him to end on the streets but as a doctor he learned enough from some of the less fortunate patients to guess what poverty and craving for drugs can do to a person. There's no sanctity when all you crave is another dose and you cannot afford it. Turning to petty crime? Not a problem. Turning to selling your body on the streets? Occasionally you get lucky and you are still alive and unharmed, get money and even get off.
The thought of Sherlock, so young, so desperate for an illusion of respite which drugs would provide him is physically painful and he finds himself shifting in his seat slightly and shifting Rosie to his other knee so he can hold her with his left hand while his right one reaches for Sherlock's left arm that's curled around the other girl.
"It's okay," he says softly. "You don't have to say it."
Sherlock looks at him as he slowly lowers his arm to place it on his left tight and suddenly, he looks so painfully young and lost.
"I do," he says finally. "There's no nice way of saying it though," he adds softly. "I was a crack-whore, John," he whispers. "And I wasn't a very picky one either. It didn't matter what and with whom as long as by the end of it I got the money I needed. Occasionally, if I got lucky, I got off too. Drugs or money for drugs was the only thing that mattered. Kinks or protection?" he grimaces as he looks down at their hands. "Kinks paid better than standard sexual acts. Women paid better than men but required more effort and time to get there and because of that they weren't always worth the hassle. Why bother with it when in the same amount of time I could make at least the same amount of money if not more by servicing men. But they still happened when money was good enough and it was a slow night," he pauses and tentatively looks up at John.
John squeezes his arm gently, hoping that it will be taken as a reassuring gesture.
"I never said it either because by the time we'd met it didn't matter anymore and at first I assumed that you worked it out on your own but…" Sherlock pauses for a moment. "Apparently it needs to be said otherwise you will keep wallowing under a mistaken and slightly deluded notion that I find anything other than Irene Adler's brain fascinating. My personal preferences always lied with men and the only women I had been with never came close to her type. And even then, I had to work myself into it mentally to have sex with them," he says before he grimaces and adds, "I'm trying to find something in her that couldn't possibly come from me but…"
"Maybe I should let her finish what she has to say," offers John.
"Good idea," sighs Sherlock as he slowly moves his arm so John's hand slides over it to rest on his hand.
Subconsciously John grips it and he feels Sherlock's fingers curl around his own as he moves his left hand just far enough to un-pause the video.
The woman, young girl, in the video continues to look straight into the camera before she lowers her eyes down for a moment as she takes a deep breath and raises her head again so she's once again looking to the camera.
"Hi Dad," she says finally, her voice cracking slightly as Sherlock beside him draws in a shaky breath as she quickly looks down again before she looks up and this time there's some fierce determination in her face. "That wasn't as hard as I thought it would be," she says quickly and pauses. "So, let's start again," she gives a quick smile to the camera. "Hi, Dad. Without a doubt you have questions and I hazard a guess that they aren't only about my opening statement."
She pauses again and quirks her left eyebrow before she continues, "You probably want to verify it yourself. So, I'm going to give you a quick summary of things which you need to know about me," she pauses for a moment. "My name is Daisy Violet Jones and according to my birth certificate I was born on 13th May 1995 in London to Magnolia Desdemona Wellington-Jones and James Winston Jones," she says. "It's also a load of bollocks," she adds with a snort. "That birth certificate is a fake one because in no way it takes into account that at the time I was born aforementioned Magnolia Desdemona Wellington-Jones no longer had a uterus to use and by my estimations for about two years prior to my birth."
She pauses again and taps the fingers of her left hand on the railing of the crib.
"What they did have at the time was a teenage daughter by the name of Lilac Violet Jones," she continues and sighs. "I don't know the details, I was never privy to them but what I did find out was that when I was about month old under the influence of drugs, she committed a suicide by throwing herself from the roof of a high building," she pauses and looks down for a moment. "People," she pauses again and shakes her head, "people who knew her when really pressed about it said that it wasn't unexpected. Just being raised by my mother would have been enough to make a normal person question their sanity," she snorts. "But her situation was worse than that. Depending from the sources at the age of seventeen she either ran away from school with a boy from a neighbour school and turned up by the New Year of 1995 as a complete mess. The other and that's the version I actually managed to verify, though not without a lot of prying from my part and a lot of assuming…" she pauses and draw a shaky breath before she continues, "is that she was kidnapped and the boy that had been taken with her was taken as a collateral damage."
John can hear Sherlock drawing in another shaky breath.
"I don't know what happened in the meantime," she says. "What I do know is that if you press a certain umbrella wielding twerp, he might give you more information than I was privy to," she adds and grimaces. "Oh yes, he was around," she snorts. "Always hovering on the periphery of my life, using whatever ruse he could think of to come close enough to ask about my opinions about the quality of my schooling or safety of me and my peers, like some sort of a bureaucratic fairly godfather," she pauses and sneers. "Hardly fairy and much less of a godfather," she sneers. "Had he been truly interested in me and quality of the life I lived he wouldn't let me remain in that house after my fa… the man I called my father died."
She sneers again, pauses to shift her jaw few times and takes a deep breath before her expression softens slightly.
"Uncle I-Know-Better aside," she says. "You're welcome to take your grievances with him," she pauses and smirks. "Shove that umbrella up his arse and open it or knock his teeth out. I would really appreciate it. Trust me on that, whatever it would be he had it coming for a very long time."
John cannot resist snorting to that statement.
"But this isn't about him," she keeps talking, her voice softening slightly. "This is about you and me as you probably figured it out already," she pauses before she looks down and smiles softly at the crib. "Well, not just you and me," she amends herself and smiles again. "Her name is Josephine and I was informed that it was a name of one my great-grandmothers but that's not why I've chosen it. I just liked its meaning and I really wanted to be done with that flower naming business. Though to be fair her second name is Daisy because I had to come up with something because the alternatives I was offered as tempered suggestions were mostly horrid and after twenty hours of labour I wasn't really at the peak of my creativity."
John finds himself smiling at the statement. Even though the two of them probably never met Daisy she has so much of Sherlock in her, not just in her looks but also in her open disdain towards Mycroft that it warms his heart as much as it makes it ache for her and Sherlock.
"She was born on 19th January 2015 in London," she continues. "And from what I've been informed she shares her birthday with your goddaughter. Though to be fair she decided to be born five minutes after midnight rather than five minutes before it," she adds and smirks before the expression sobers. "Her father is irrelevant," she sighs. "I know that it makes me a hypocrite," she grimaces, "but I would burn the whole world before I would allow that sleazy scumbag to come within ten feet of my daughter."
She looks down into the crib.
"That brings me to the whole point of all of this," she adds softly before she raises her head and looks directly into the camera. "Because if you're watching this video rather than talking to me directly it means that I'm…" she pauses and then very slowly adds, "probably gone."
John's heart jumps to his throat and pummels down into his stomach and he squeezes Sherlock's hand. But he cannot bring himself to look at Sherlock's face because he cannot tear his eyes from Daisy.
"The life I lived," Daisy continues, "was complicated and at one point I traded a bad situation into one that I hoped that it would be better," she grimaces. "It wasn't. It took me some time to realise that I traded one ugliness for another and what was even worse…" she pauses and takes a deep breath. "I didn't want my child to grow up with this, not the same type of hell in which I grew up," she sighs. "That's why…" her voice breaks and a tear slips down her cheek.
John can feel his eyes beginning to sting.
"This isn't an admission of guilt," sighs Daisy. "Unless we're talking about naivety because I was naïve as fuck," she snorts. "I just wanted to give you something which has been denied to you and because I believe that unlike that umbrella wielding twerp you will make the right choices," she adds softly. "Most probably when you're watching this you already have Josie with you," she pauses. "So, here it is, I'm not trying to put any pressure on you to decide what happens next. I'm not expecting you to take her and raise her," she pauses. "But the choice about what happens to her next is yours to make, Dad. I won't hold it against you if you chose to give her up," she pauses again and smiles sadly. "If you do, there's one thing I have to ask of you. Make sure that whoever takes her will treat her right and that when the right time comes, she would be able to have some few mementos of me. Some of them should be included in her things and some of them can be retrieved by Uncle I-Know-Better. Make sure that they will cherish her and that they would allow her to become whomever she would want to be. It would mean a lot to me."
The pause that comes after that is longer and the silence both in the video and in the flat heavy.
"But on the bright side maybe my sheer dumb luck managed to hold this time," she says suddenly with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "It held in so far," she grimaces. "I can only hope and maybe if it had we will have a chance to talk in person," she pauses and grimaces. "That would be one very awkward conversation, especially about certain decisions I made. But as awkward as I think it could get, I still hope that we will have that chance. But…" she pauses, "if it doesn't happen, I just want you to know that I never held you responsible for choices that were made by people who led my mother into suicide and who also ensured that I never met you."
She remains quiet for a moment before she snorts, "They certainly ripped off the benefits of that as if they bloody deserved them. My little pet, so smart and so talented," she sneers the last sentence. "Well, she reaped what she sow and died what I hope was a very painful and very lonely death, as it should have been. I have no regrets in that regard," she pauses before she adds. "For the record I didn't kill her, she was just stupid enough to ignore the signs of a breast cancer until it was too late," brief pause. "That's another thing you should include in the need to know package for Josie."
"As for the rest, it should be available with the umbrella wielding twerp," she says. "That's all he's good at, collecting data," she adds and grimaces. "And maybe procuring better false identities than the ones I had the access to. Josie was finally registered as Josephine Daisy O'Kelly. It's something you might find useful but necessary to change before you will go forward with whatever you will chose to do about her," she sighs. "Just one thing, I know that I almost certainly lost the right to ask that but could you make sure that at least one of her real names will stay with her?" she pauses. "It doesn't have to be as a first one but I think that one day she would like to have one as one of them."
Off camera Josie in the video starts fussing and Daisy bends over the crib to sooth her. The next minute or two are filled with gentle shushing noises until Josie quiets and Daisy straightens.
She looks directly into the camera, smiles sadly as she whispers, "Goodbye Dad" and reaches out to turn off the camera.