It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn't. ~Barbara Kingsolver
Sherlock
John drives them to Baker Street because the girls need changing and considering the hour they might need a snack if they're planning to make it to Sussex in time for late dinner. They also need to pack and repack because while John has two suitcases of his clothes Sherlock only has what he's wearing.
John helps him change the girls and prepares a snack for them while Sherlock packs his suitcase. They aren't going for longer than a weekend away but with the girls one can never be sure what they would be up to so he packs pretty heavily, avoiding better suits and shirts. He completely forgoes suit jackets in favour of cashmere sweaters because unlike the former they don't require dry cleaning and unlike John's sweaters they actually look good (even though Sherlock very rarely wears them).
While the girls are busy with their snacks (trapped in John's chair that's pushed to Sherlock's chair to keep them from falling out of it) John repacks other bags. When he sees Sherlock come out of the kitchen he throws the car keys at him and tells him to bring his bag there and remove the old car-seat from the boot.
Sherlock makes a quick work from his errand and returns upstairs to pick Katie's travel cot from John's bedroom. Hunting down the bag for it takes him a while and he is almost at the bottom of the stairs when he remembers about her sleeping bag they used as extra padding for the cot as well as a duvet. On his second trip down he checks on John who is repacking the suitcase with Katie's clothes and waves at the suitcase by the door.
"That's mine and done if you're heading downstairs," he says without turning around.
So Sherlock grabs it.
When he returns the suitcase that John was packing is standing by the door while John rummages through the bag Daisy left behind with Josie.
"Did you find anything more?" asks Sherlock.
"Mostly nappies and I'm curious about those two," he answers as he points at the CD/DVD discs they didn't watch before they left the flat. "Do you want to bring…" he points at the laptop.
Sherlock nods and says, "We should check them too."
Then he removes the disc with Daisy's goodbye from the laptop and puts the first unlabelled disk in the drive. The player launches while he's putting the first disk in the cover.
The screen remains blank but something keeps playing so after a moment he unmutes the sound and violin music soars from the speaker.
It's vivacious and completely unfamiliar, to him at least. He looks at John who looks as surprised as Sherlock feels but within seconds John's surprise morphs into a wide grin. From behind his back he can hear happy cooing which indicates that Josie too is familiar with the melody.
"He's a Pirate," says John.
"Who is a pirate?" he asks simply.
"We will amend that at some point," says John simply. "She's good. Playing that solo," he adds with a hint of admiration. "It's an orchestra piece," he clarifies.
The music changes to something he's vaguely familiar with even though placing it takes him some time.
"Beauty and the Beast?" he asks John.
"Watched it?" asks John dryly.
He had but he is not going to admit to that, yet.
"Danced it," he explains. "My secondary school offered a variety of alternatives when it came to physical education. Ballet and ballroom dancing were one of them. My dancing instructor was crazy about this song."
He looks at the timer; there are about twelve hours and about thirty minutes of Daisy playing left.
Just twelve hours and thirty something minutes of his daughter life. That's all he has. Her baby, her note and over twelve hours of her playing. That's all of his daughter he will ever have.
His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and he can feel tears welling in his eyes. He shakes his head. There's another disk to check and they really need to get going if they're supposed to reach Sussex at a relatively decent hour. So, he wipes the tears away and removes the disk from the laptop.
He switches disks and hastily scribbles on the one he removed with a sharpie 'Daisy Playing'. While he does that the player launches the third one.
It's a video file. The camera again shows the room and Daisy in it, with her violin in her hands, playing the same melody she played on the other, note for note. But unlike in the other movie in this one Daisy's hair are dark brown, like his, shorter than in the note too, just reaching her chin. She's also has a quite noticeable baby bump, the footage probably comes from about fifth to six month of the pregnancy, more likely the fifth.
He glances at the timer. Three hours of footage. It isn't a lot but it's all he's got. Technically he doesn't have it too, it wasn't put together for his benefit but Josie's but he has Josie so…
That glimpse of Daisy alone is enough to cement in him the certainty that the decision to keep Josie is the right one. If anyone would try to take her from him now… well, they could try but they will have to pry her from his dead, cold arms first and he isn't going to make it an easy task.
You could always make a copies of the disk, you idiot, Mycroft's voice chides him.
Fuck off, he snarls at the suggestion.
"Sherlock?" asks John softly.
"I'm fine," says quickly and he shakes his head. "Is there anything left to do?" he asks, changing the subject.
There isn't much. John finishes packing Josie's bag. He packs the box of Aptamil into it and the baby utensils, the mix of newly purchased ones and a shopping bag of Katie's. He fills the remaining space with nappies from Sherlock's stack. Then he finishes the box by putting the remaining ones in the diaper-bag along with two bottles of formula and both carriers. While he does that Sherlock hounds his laptop bag, he isn't going to work in Sussex but he plans to take his laptop to watch Daisy without interruption (much interruption). He puts the DVDs in the bag too.
Behind him John mutters something about getting a bigger diaper-bag but Sherlock won't try to disillusion him that bigger bags than the current one are duffel bags (and that they already have one that's completely devoted to baby stuff).
Finally, with 221 Baker Street thoroughly locked, both girls strapped in their respective car-seats and the boot filled to the brim John starts the car and they drive off.
John knows where he's going; after all he did drive there. More precisely had been driven there considering that Mary had the car at the time and Sherlock simply bullied Mycroft into sending a car for John rather than leaving him at the mercy of the trains.
At least they live in Crowborough rather than further south, he muses to himself.
John is good and confident driver but not a very big fan of the web of country roads. They didn't have that many occasions to leave London since John learned how to drive but in the few cases they got as long as John was sticking to motorways and main roads he was doing fine until he managed to get lost which was when he always booted Sherlock into the driver's seat.
"There goes a small city car," says John at some point.
Sherlock looks around and notices that it's a very weird statement because there are no small city cars around them. Station wagons and SUVs though, there's a lot of them in front and behind them.
"What about small city cars?" he asks curiously.
"Nothing," answers John. "Except my hopes to downsize this giant cow into something smaller."
"Like what? Like Panda?" he asks, feeling slightly edgy, because surely John isn't thinking about buying a Panda.
"What's wrong with Pandas?" asks John.
"What isn't wrong with Pandas," mutters Sherlock.
"They're going to get extinct because they're lazy about procreating," says John.
"I hope that you aren't planning to buy a Panda," says Sherlock firmly. "Can you imagine me getting out of a Panda?" he asks pointedly.
"What you have against Pandas?" asks John simply.
"To begin with: legs," snorts Sherlock. "For the matter so do the girls. I know that right now and for a longer while they won't be able to reach the floor but…" he shakes his head. "Couldn't you pick something with more style? Like a 500 if we have to talk about small cars," he asks. "I'll still look ridiculous getting out of one but…" he shakes his head again.
"I'm open to suggestions as long as it's a three door version until the girls will go to school," says John.
"Is the idea of child safety locks familiar to you?" asks Sherlock pointedly.
"It is," says John and Sherlock can hear a smile in his voice. "But so is the idea of genetics and I know whose genetics these two have," he adds cheekily.
"Aston Martin then," he mutters.
"Can you afford an Aston Martin?" John asks. "Great cars, stylish too but I'm not spending my savings on something we will only use occasionally."
"I have a trust fund," snorts Sherlock.
"And a child to rise too," says John.
"Bet you that you won't be able to fit the pushchair and a week worth of shopping into the boot of a 500," shrugs Sherlock. "And that's just shopping…"
"Since when we're doing weekly shopping trips?" asks John. "Baker Street is within walking distance of the most shops we use."
"Holidays," offers Sherlock.
"Never seen you on one," John points out.
"Never needed to take one either," he retorts. "It's good to nurture children's curiosity with exposing them to new environments. Have you seen a 500? We will have to consider ourselves lucky if the pushchair alone will fit in the boot."
"I know that you're familiar with the concept of renting a car, I've seen you do it," replies John. "Tell you what, find any car that you like under 50 thousand quid and we will talk about it more."
"Why I have to do all the heavy lifting?" he asks petulantly.
"Because you're the one that cares how you look while you're getting out of one," quips John.
He snorts but with one look behind his back at the girls who're happily babbling at their respective plushies as well as each other he picks up his phone and dives into the rabbit hole of research.
"Low insurance group and low emissions to avoid congestion charges," he mutters, mostly to himself because he knows that's what John would prefer in a car.
"Don't bother with exemption from congestion charges," says John. "I give them a year to three at the most before the only cars that would be exempt from paying it will be electric and I'm not buying an electric car," he adds with a snort.
"Preferences?" he asks.
"Not an Audi," John answers. "Big boot, relatively small and easy to park."
"What does that even mean?" he asks.
"You will figure it out," shrugs John.
He doesn't. The most reasonable thing to do is checking the reviews of the pushchair itself for the ability to fit into boot. It leads him pretty much nowhere.
"I hate to disappoint you but if you want to have a big boot to store in there something more than a pushchair you have to get used to the idea of an estate car," he tells John after few minutes.
"Are you trying hard enough?" asks John, his tone is light and teasing.
"Well, I do know that our pushchair fits into a boot of a unspecified BMW saloon. With one big shopping bag and several smaller ones stacked on top of it," he clarifies.
"Do you want to get out of an estate car?" asks John.
"They have bigger boots, not that I'm planning to ride in one anytime soon," he snorts. "Speaking of which, Aston Martin, great handling but the boot from the outside looks bigger than it actually is, I wouldn't recommend it as a family car," he adds with the straightest face he can muster.
In retrospect, he still doesn't know how to feel about that entire experience. On one hand it was terrifying; especially at the tail end of a high and on the other it was mildly exciting. But maybe all that was exciting about it was the prospect of finally seeing John again.
He turns his head slightly so he can look at John.
John is here, with him and he practically moved to Baker Street even though they will have to do some remodelling to give John… them some privacy.
He didn't think it through, the offer. He was so determined not to have John in a different part of town that he simply jumped the gun and offered Baker Street to John as a home again and now, as long as they only have two bedrooms they will have to share a bedroom.
It's a daunting prospect, sharing a bedroom with John. It happened in the past on handful occasions, at first he found the idea annoying, sharing the very private space with another human being. It was something he hadn't done since he figured out how to scare the living daylight out of his roommate in boarding school (as well as every single one that followed, it had been surprisingly easy). The idea of adapting his routines to another human being sharing the same room was simply outrageous.
But they got through it. Through John's ban on any artificial lights in the room, it mellowed simply to 'could you turn your laptop the other way or reduce it brightness until I will fall asleep'. They adapted to John using the bathroom first because Sherlock had a tendency of using all of the warm water if he was left alone with his thoughts in the shower.
He also learned how to sleep with John in the same room. At first he found John's breathing and soft occasional snores annoying. He also woke to any sounds of distress coming from John's side of the room. He tried to wake him once and never repeated the same mistake after he narrowly missed being punched in the nose. Instead of waking him next time he tried somewhat familiar deviation from the routine he started using on John at Baker Street. But at Baker Street he had his violin and gentle soothing music to ease John back into sleep. He never took his violin with him on cases though so instead of playing he started talking about his paper on tobacco ash in a soft and even voice.
But all of this was before and since then even though for few months John returned to Baker Street they never had a chance to share the same bedroom.
John sharing the bedroom with him, not the bed though, John would insist on keeping his old double bed and will surely say something about the size of Sherlock's king bed and how hard it would be to fit in there. They will also argue about who gets to keep the fireplace (which had been used grand total of three times in the past when the heathers malfunctioned in the middle of winter). It will have to be thoroughly cleaned first.
John should keep it, he decides. He's older, not by much but he will sooner start complaining about draft and cold bones. Though in an ideal world…
In an ideal world his daughter would be alive and he would be a part of her life since birth.
In an ideal world he wouldn't be thinking about putting a wall in the middle of a bedroom he would be sharing with John Watson.
In an ideal world neither Katie nor Josie would be there.
Most probably in an ideal world he would never get a chance to meet John Watson. No, if he would be raising Daisy since birth he would be dealing with Grandma Wellington-Jones on regular basis and she would be fighting him at every turn. He would be obliged to maintain a proper household for a growing child and to keep a steady job. He would have to finish his mastery in order to land one, probably in pharmaceutical company. It would bore him to tears and he would be obliged to pursue a PhD in order to further his competence.
He would never have a reason to loiter in Bart's laboratories. Most probably he would never cross paths with Mike Stamford and without knowing Mike Stamford he would never met John Watson.
Quid pro quo. His daughter for the love of his goddamn life.
'And you call him romantic,' he hears Daisy's voice just there. 'Have you looked into a mirror lately, Dad?' her tone is light and playful and he knows that he's imagining it, imagining her.
He should have seen this coming. That's how it first started with John in his mind palace. One day he wasn't there and the other one he was. It happened pretty early on though.
There are all there. John first and foremost. Mycroft too. Mummy and Daddy, although their voices are the voices of the past. Hudder was there too for a while, the gentle soothing voice that didn't judge his less than stellar choices but gently reminded him to eat and sleep at somewhat regular basis. Greg too, early on when he was struggling with his sobriety he summoned image of Greg telling him that with his talents he was more than capable of finding something worth living for.
John suppressed them all, well, except Mycroft but Mycroft is a manifestation of cold logic. John is Mummy and Daddy and Hudders from the early days, Greg too and above all else he's John.
Who is Daisy?
'Myself,' she answers. 'At least the version of myself you managed to glimpse from our very brief exchange. And what you saw was your flesh and blood, your disdain for Uncle Myc, your musical talent and your determination,' she pauses. 'That means that I'm basically you,' she pauses again and says playfully. 'Does it mean that I get to snog John Watson?'
'Oh, for God's sake,' he almost groans it at loud. 'You have a horrible taste in men.'
'I got it from you, Dad,' she replies.
'Please, go away,' he tells her. 'We can have this conversation later when there's a lesser chance that I will blurt something at loud.'
'I think I'm going to stay,' she says. 'It's rather comfy in here. I don't know what his problem with this car is, it's rather spacious.'
'Wife's car,' he replies. 'Not a fan of the car or the wife.'
She stays quiet for several minutes until she suddenly says, 'You would hate it. This responsible dad pants you would be forced to wear if I was living with you. Most probably you would finish your mastery, even your PhD and get that responsible adult job but you would be bored to tears. You would probably end up doing something stupid. Not recent level of stupid but something stupid for certain. Maybe not drugs, you would be too scared of losing me to use drugs but alcohol or something risky…'
'Your point being?' he asks.
'My point is that deep inside you're a closeted romantic. You might scoff at sentiment and roll your eyes at the use of pet names but you're still your parents' son, a prisoner of your own genetics so to speak. You don't like people in general but you like individual people, not all of them. You do form some sort of relationships with other people. Like with Hudders, you love and respect Mummy but you see her faults too so subconsciously you spent your adult life looking for a less judgemental mother figure until you found one. All she did was nurse you through a bad crash and offer her couch and fridge to you in hard times, an offer you took her on many times before you moved to Baker Street. Yes, she chatters. Yes, sometimes she has no filter but she loves you in her own way. You filled a void, as did she. Then there's Greg and Uncle Myc. You didn't look for it but when it developed you welcomed it all the same.'
'The older brother substitute,' he nods.
'John Watson is something else entirely,' she continues. 'He's Daddy…'
'Stop!'
'… to your Mummy,' she finishes. 'The calm to chaos. Home after a long trip. You can scoff all you want that there's no such a thing as soul mates but on a deeply subconscious level you kept looking for the same kind of connection they have. Someone who took a good look at the best and worst of you and decided that they want to know you better.'
'I blew my chances,' he tells her.
'I don't know,' she says slowly. 'He's here, isn't he? He agreed to come home; he's bringing his daughter with him too. You have a shot at playing happy family together and with some actual work and a little bravery you might swop in there just before some desperate bint will capture his attention. Hot single dads don't stay single for long, you know.'
'Please, stop saying stuff like that,' he sighs.
'I'm you, remember?' she shrugs. 'Which means that I know every single deeply buried fantasy you ever had about him or every military man that managed to turn your head. I particularly like that one with…'
He covers his ears but it doesn't help at all and she's detailing to him his foolish dream about reunion he hoped for but the sudden movement causes John to look at him.
"Sherlock? Are you all right?" he asks in concern.
"Yes," he says quickly. "Got lost in my head. Crazy place to be at the moment," he adds with a sigh.
"Mary or Daisy or both?" asks John.
"Daisy," he mumbles.
"Is it bad?"
"Not until we're touching certain subjects," he admits.
John nods. Like her death, he doesn't say but he thinks it.
"She's my daughter, John," he says softly. "I don't remember her conception or anything about her mother but all I saw of her is…" he pauses, "me. She's me, John," he states with a sigh.
John remains silent for a moment before he says, "Mary, the one you saw me speaking to…" he pauses, "she was me, Sherlock."
"So you understand it," he says.
"I do, I also know a medical term for what we're experiencing," John says slowly. "It's called disassociation. I know that you abhor labels and that your mind works on the level beyond that of an average person but…" he pauses. "It isn't healthy; left untreated it can lead to dissociative identity disorder."
"My mind always worked like that," admits Sherlock softly.
"It's a coping mechanism used to separate oneself from traumatic events," says John. "Very common in children," he pauses. "I'm not sure if you want to bring this up with your parents but I think that…"
You should address it during the visit, Sherlock finishes for him.
"I was planning to," he says. "I'm just not sure when."
"Probably not on the same breath as informing them about Daisy and Josie," suggests John.
"Not good?" he asks.
"It's neither good or bad," says John. "It is what it is."
"The most awkward weekend I ever spent or I'm going to spend with my parents," says Sherlock.
Does it mean that everything that I am is a result of a childhood trauma, he thinks.
"You're more than you experiences, Sherlock," John tells him, as if he knows what he's thinking about. "You're the best man that I ever known. One of the bravest I ever met and I met quite a lot of men who deserve that adjective. You're wise, not just intelligent. You can also be a royal pain in the arse when you want but nobody is perfect. You're also kind, if selective about bestowing that kindness. You're simply more."
"So are you," says Sherlock. "Don't scoff," he adds when he sees John open his mouth. "You aren't perfect but neither am I but we used to be…" he pauses.
He can't say it, not here, not right now and maybe not for a long while.
"We met when we needed to meet. We drove each other nuts but we were good for each other, we made each other better. I don't want to lose that, I never wanted to lose that and I'm sorry that I had to let you believe it that you had," he says finally.
"You don't need to keep apologising for that," says John softly.
"I beg to differ," Sherlock replies. "I should have handled planning stage differently. I should have kept you in the loop. You were a terrible liar…"
"Not really," John interjects. "I'm an excellent liar but the stipulation of excellence in lying is lack of emotional connection to the person I'm telling a lie," he explains. "It's complicated," he adds after a moment.
"What isn't," says Sherlock.
"Them," John musses as he tilts his head towards the backseat. "They aren't even one year old and they already have been through a lot. They still smile though, without an effort."
"They are lacking mental capacity to comprehend this mess," says Sherlock.
"Until proven otherwise I will count it as a blessing," sighs John.
Mr Holmes
Solitude wasn't something that Siger William Holmes experienced in great quantity through majority of his long life. As the oldest of fifteen siblings he always had someone by his side, most of the time willingly, at times not very much (because siblings). Then came the army and shortly after that Mal and with Mal came their own children.
Mal, unlike majority of his brothers and sisters was always aware that at times a man needs to retreat and spend some time with just himself to truly appreciate the company of other people. So she didn't complain when he occasionally took a solitary stroll or went on a long run. He always came back to her both tired and energised and when she needed it too he extended the same courtesy to her on regular basis.
That didn't mean that they avoided spending time with each other or that they didn't love doing stuff together. They had but they both took to heart Grandma Sherlock's advice about keeping a healthy balance between together and me time in a relationship. According to her maintaining that balance was a recipe for a loving and long marriage.
There was something in it because all of the grandfathers Siger could remember were reverently devoted to Grandma Sherlock. Not to mention their own marriage (fifty-two years in June and recently passed fifty-fourth anniversary of their first meeting) was a testament of the authenticity of Grandma's words.
Today solitude is not something he enjoys however. Especially with Mal away for the weekend in Edinburgh, attending the wedding of her goddaughter's daughter, a girl she saw only a handful of times but left enough fond memories of herself for the girl to extend an invitation to her. It was a plus one but unlike Mal he still felt uneasy about not saving the weekends surrounding Sherlock's birthday for Sherlock.
It started during Sherlock's gap year. Sherlock was unreachable that year, so badly that even Myc couldn't give them his exact location. It was a big eighteen and due to Mal's contract they were forced to spend that year and the one before that in California. They both worried though and as it turned out, with a good reason because when they finally returned to English soil in early August at the airport they were only greeted by Myc who kept avoiding answering questions about Sherlock until after he forced them to eat a proper dinner. Had Siger been less jetlagged and couple years younger he would have forced the issue immediately, Mal too. But no, quite tasty dinner Myc subjected them to was concluded with Myc's announcement that at the moment Sherlock was in a rehab clinic to which he had been admitted willingly at the beginning of July.
Afterwards between him and Mal they managed to get out of Myc the admission that towards the end of June last year one day Sherlock just vanished from school, with no note left behind or telling anyone where he was going. With some more pressure applied to him Myc also admitted that he managed to find Sherlock few months later in early January (after Sherlock's birthday) completely off his tits. Then Myc admitted that after finding him he put Sherlock in an enforced hospital detox and that after he was released from the hospital he brought him to his home. He also admitted that the moment he took his eyes off Sherlock he had vanished again only to turn up at the beginning of July looking like hell but ready to admit that he needed to get into rehab.
Naturally they tried to visit him as soon as they learned where he was but on Sherlock's doctor recommendation they had to wait another two days before seeing him. They spent them at discussing next course of action. Mal and Myc at some point had latched on the idea that the army would keep Sherlock straight and narrow. Siger, the only military man in the family believed otherwise. He agreed that the army would keep Sherlock busy and would give him a structure but he didn't believe that the entire experience would be anything but sour to Sherlock.
Sherlock always respected the military and that respect followed him into adulthood, although as Siger believed for a completely different reason. He had eyes after all and he knew where teenager Sherlock's eyes strayed when he occasionally happened to find himself in the close vicinity of the base. Being Sherlock he thought that he was clever about it but Siger knew him and therefor he knew better.
Making peace with the thought that Sherlock was most probably gay took a little time, an evening of mulling over it with a glass of whiskey after a hearty dinner. Interested in men instead of women Sherlock was still Sherlock, still his son. But his interest in military men took Siger definitely more time to make peace with. He knew the army, he served with a handful of gay soldiers and over the years he led a couple of them every now and then. He knew enough about their lives to know that being gay in the army wasn't easy and neither was being a significant other of a gay solider.
But as Captain Robert Ferguson, Siger's close friend and for many years a closeted gay man had once put it: the heart wants what it wants, so does the cock. Sherlock wanted a soldier, may God put in his way a handsome army man that would appreciate him and treat him well.
He never shared that observation with Mal. Not out of malice but concern that Mal who figured that Sherlock's interest strayed towards men in general would try to play matchmaker. It had a great potential to end badly for all of the parties involved so Siger kept his mouth shut on the subject for years until nearly six years ago Mycroft announced that Sherlock found himself a flatmate who was a retired army doctor. It was only after dinner and after Myc left when Mal commented that maybe there was something more to it when he dared to admit that Sherlock's eyes tended to linger on an occasional handsome officer over the years. Mal, bless her didn't register the lie of omission and instead busied herself with making plans for when would it be appropriate to invite Sherlock and his 'flatmate' for a weekend.
Sherlock immediately declined the invitation as soon as it was issued as Siger expected him to do. Ever since that hellish year that he spent being subjected to mandatory daily drug tests under Mal's watchful eye Sherlock's natural independent streak had hardened into a firm resolve to never again let the rest of the family control his life.
He suffered through his birthday that year with a very fake smile plastered on his face and after seeing that Siger wasn't surprised that on the same day next year he simply couldn't be found anywhere.
It took them years to establish that Sherlock didn't want to celebrate his birthday with his parents and that he was fine with a phone calls or even better a text wishing him happy birthday. More often than not he did his best to avoid meeting them for the occasion and simply refused invites to Sussex during the month of January. Usually his readymade excuse was that they just seen each other during Christmas break and that he was busy with something.
Sherlock was hardly a dutiful son that visited his parents on every occasion available and he had his quirks. He was not a big fan of crowds so he avoided Siger's and Mal's wedding anniversary party like a sensible person would have avoided the plague. He hardly made it back home on Christmas and hardly for more than one night, two at the most but he did try to set aside a day or two in late December to visit them.
Except this year. This year all they got was a currier with a package containing their gifts and a phone call with Sherlock (initiated by Mal) that this year he was very busy and that most probably he won't show up.
It bothered them but after Sherlock's turbulent university years and radio silence that followed his drop out from mastery program they had been forced to adapt to Sherlock initiating majority of the contact between them and on his terms.
Occasionally, when he was in the mood, he was willing to meet them for dinner on a neutral ground. He called without a specific occasion very rarely, Siger more often than Mal on the matter. It wasn't that he loved her less; Siger knew that he loved them both equally but he knew Sherlock and he knew Mal. Mal had a tendency to overwhelm other people in conversations and when Sherlock called without any occasion he always had a reason to do so even if he hardly admitted it at loud.
More often than not the reason was drugs, at least early on. Siger spent quite a lot of nights and afternoons hanging on the phone and playing battleships or chess with Sherlock while listening to him talk about his research or this or that case. But as important as the things he was saying so were the things he wasn't saying (if not even more important).
Most probably I won't show up meant I won't definitely show up. I'm fine translated to I'm not fine but doing my best to hide it from you. I don't know, I hadn't seen John in a while meant I hadn't seen John in a while and it's killing me.
But the thing about Sherlock and his work or lack of thereof was that it always somehow made it out, at least since Sherlock met John Watson. The blog had been a source of information, not always reliable – vide the Woman thing versus his speculation about Sherlock's preferences several months prior, Mal planned to set the man straight on the subject during Christmas visit – but it was always something.
Except the blog stopped being updated around the time Sherlock got shot and hadn't been updated since even though they knew from John himself that Sherlock was reluctantly allowed to return to very light work, like catching up with paperwork (to Sherlock's dismay and amusement of DI Lestrade) or working on embezzlement cases or stuff that didn't require out of him a lot of physical effort.
As it turned out, Sherlock did have a case over Christmas break that kept him busy for the entire month. Sherlock's accusations against Culverton Smith were relatively quickly followed by information that Sherlock tried to attack him and that John Watson subdued him. Next morning the case was concluded with an information about Smith's arrest the night before.
The information itself was followed by a call from Mycroft that Sherlock would remain at the hospital for next few days and that he was refusing all visitors. Siger knew what it mean without seeing him. Mal on the other hand was appalled by the extent of the damage John Watson inflicted upon their son because she taken the entire list of Sherlock's medical issues as something John Watson personally had done to Sherlock. It took her several minutes to agree with Siger that malnutrition which Sherlock was suffering from wasn't something John Watson could have inflicted on him and that neither his kidney issues could be caused by the man. Yes, some damage to the kidney area could have been inflicted by the man but it was far more likely that Sherlock started to suffer from kidney failure prior to that.
She was still determined to press charges and she was appalled when she learned that Sherlock repeatedly refused to press charges against the man. Naturally she contacted Sherlock and tried to talk some sense into him but it ended as Siger predicted it would end. With both of them in a huff and with Sherlock blacklisting them from visiting him at the hospital.
It was a miracle that he accepted the phone call on his birthday although his tone during his short discussion with Mal indicated that he wasn't going to follow her request to charge John Watson with a physical assault and that he was still pissed off at her for even suggesting it.
During a very short talk with Siger himself while Mal left the room to open the door to the postman Sherlock admitted to him that his issues with John Watson were his issues with John Watson and that if Mal was unwilling to accept that he was an adult and capable of making his choices then well: Happy Birthday, Happy Easter, Have a great anniversary, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, Dad. After that he also admitted that John was coming later to relieve Lestrade.
He sounded hopeful and nervous about it so Siger told him the only thing he could tell him that he wished that it would go well for both of them. Apparently they headed out for a cake, at least that's what Sherlock's text to Siger later in the evening claimed. It had to be good enough to warrant three whole sentences from Sherlock aside from the initial statement.
Since then and with Mal's departure to Scotland looming over him Siger decided to use the weekend to visit Sherlock alone hoping that without Mal to get on his nerves Sherlock would be more open about everything that happened.
Mal eventually left on Thursday afternoon, picked by one of Mycroft drivers to be delivered to the airport. When she was travelling alone, which rarely happened these days she preferred to avoid having Siger drive her to the airport. She wasn't opposed to being picked up by him though even though this time she arranged with Mycroft that the car would pick her back from the airport.
So, on Thursday afternoon Siger was left with an empty house and a list of chores he needed to do before leaving for London to spend as much time with his son as possible.
He handled the issue of food first, preparing Mal's favourite lasagne to refrigerate it in order to keep it for Sunday dinner. Halfway through cooking it, it occurred to him that Sherlock too would like homemade lasagne so he had to switch his plans for Thursday evening a bit to accommodate extended stay in the kitchen. Luckily most of his Thursday plans didn't require out of him to travel outside grounds and those that did could have been handled on Friday morning.
Friday morning therefore got slightly busy for him but he spent forty years in the army and got himself promoted to Colonel on his own merits and not because he looked well in the uniform or there wasn't anyone better to fill that position. No, he was good at what he did and he could handle pressure well.
So during his morning errands he shaved unnecessary small talk and concentrated on things he had to do before leaving. Most of them were deliveries anyway, dropping or picking stuff Mal left for their neighbours or they for them. He done light shopping and usual around the house errands for Mr Allen, their poor neighbour beekeeper who recently broke his leg. He tended to the hives and took his dogs on a long walk, blessing the short talk with John Watson a year prior about the benefits of allergen immunotherapy. The therapy was serving him very well and at this rate in few more months to a year he could surprise Sherlock with an appearance of a dog. Sherlock always liked dogs and could hardly resist the lure of touching one. Maybe if there was one in Sussex then Sherlock would be a more frequent visitor.
After lunch at the local pub, just stew and tea because he was planning to drive today he tended to the garden and did quick vacuuming of the house before his planned visit with Captain Ferguson's older brother who was a resident in a local care home. The visit dragged slightly, started slightly later than usual because the nursing staff got slightly understaffed today and he got there just as Big Fergy was being changed into a fresh nappy.
The visit went well, Fergy was in a good mood and eager to play chess with him. He was even determined enough to have a rematch before dinner although the rematch left them both stumped because they were both competitive cocks who refused to give their ground. So his visit and the game had dragged through the dinner and at half past seven in the evening he was only heading home rather than in the car and driving to London.
Sherlock won't mind, he thinks to himself. Besides getting there late might work in my favour and he won't send me to a hotel for the night.
It might be the only chance to have a proper heart to heart with his son without worrying about Mal getting involved in it because as much as Sherlock loves Mal she tends to irritate him when her attention is directed at him.
The evening is warm, ridiculously so. It's the warmest January he remembers in a long time. The ground is slightly moist but not slick so the drive to London would be an easy one. He just needs to grab a bite and have a big cup of coffee before hitting the road.
With the weather as kind as it is instead of walking around the property he slips through the gateway hidden behind a curtain of ivy. They hardly ever use that gateway in winter but they leave it unlocked during the season just in case.
He loves returning home from his solitary walks through that gate. He generally likes returning home anyway but he always liked looking at the house from the direction of that gate. With the grounds around the gate being slightly lower than the rest of the property the building itself towers slightly over an onlooker and his surroundings. It never looks foreboding though but with the soft glow of inside and outer lights it always looks warm and inviting. Even now when the only lights he can see are the outer lights.
Wait a minute, is the garage light on? It's a motion sensor triggered one and it isn't supposed to be on unless someone triggers it by loitering around the garage door. Who would be loitering around the house?
Mal is definitely gone, safe and quite happy in Edinburgh. He checked with her during lunch and listened to the details of her morning with her goddaughter. Myc hardly ever shows up uninvited and when he does he usually gives them about an hour of a warning prior to his arrival.
The Holmeses rarely visit them with a prior warning and never without one either. His siblings and nephews and nieces occasionally drop by unannounced if they happen to be in the area but never at this time of the year.
Most of his mates from the army are either dead or have families of their own to look after. Those still alive drop by occasionally but they do so with a prior warning.
Most neighbours he keeps contact with already seen him today so they have no reason to visit.
Who would be so brazen to simply get on the grounds when no one was home?
Thieves most probably.
Great, just great and the only thing he has against them is himself while those fuckwits might find his service revolver and his shotgun. That's just what he needs at the moment.
A sensible person would have called the police and risked ridicule if the intruders would turn out to be simple though unexpected guest but he's hardly a sensible man. A sensible man with a family would use the support that British Army offered to gain skills necessary to improve their living situation and wouldn't renew the contract once the old one had ended.
But he wasn't a sensible man and he had various bullet holes in his body to prove that. He was a veteran of Omani Civil War, Gulf War and Bosnian War and he almost got himself sent to Falklands.
So he does what any insensible man would do in his place. He drops on his stomach and slowly starts crawling towards the house while blessing the laxness in mowing the lawn in winter and the good weather.
He keeps crawling carefully until he reaches the edge of Mal's flower garden which at the time of the year consists mostly of sticks and dead or hibernating plants. Once there he can narrow the size of the car to an estate car, dark in colour but he can't see the intruders anywhere near the car.
If only he could see the license plate...
So he sighs and starts crawling around the garden towards the car until he can get a clear look at the plates. Once he has them in sight he pulls out his phone and dials the number of one of his neighbours, a DI in Crowborough's Police, Ted Gibson. Ever since his divorce Gibson likes spending his Friday evenings at work.
"Hi, Ted," he says quickly, trying to be relatively quiet but not alarmed. "Can I ask you to check something for me?"
"Sure," answers Ted. "I'm taking a coffee break anyway. What you need, Sig?"
"Could you check to whom belongs the car with those numbers: SP56LJY? It's a black Audi estate, A3 I think," he asks.
"Give me a moment," Ted replies and he starts tapping the keys on his keyboard. "Black Audi A3. License plate SP56LJY. First registered in 2013 by a Mary Morstan, two changes in the register. First in June 2014 to Mary Watson and recently in December to a John Watson, husband I presume. Do you want me to look him up, Sig?"
"Nah, I know him," Siger answers. "I just didn't know his car. Thanks for that, Ted."
"See you at the usual place then," says Ted.
"Ta," he quips and hangs the phone.
What John Watson is doing here? More importantly what he's doing here without a prior warning.
Deep inside he knows what and why and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest.
Good God, Sherlock. But it can't be because Myc would reach out with the bad news faster than John Watson.
Then the back door opens and very much alive Sherlock steps out of the house, striding toward the car quickly. At least it seems that it's Sherlock because the man has his coat on and his hair. He's quickly followed out of the house by John Watson.
"I'm not liking it," John comments. "Don't they have neighbourhood watches in the area?"
"They do," Sherlock replies briskly, he sounds like Sherlock. "Her name is Margaret Ratchet, recently hospitalised due to a broken leg. We aren't going to be bothered by concerned villagers and it's a Friday evening. Daddy plays chess with Big Ferguson on Fridays if they're home. He probably got himself caught in a rematch. Relax. So, what we're bringing in first, stuff or…"
"Stuff obviously," replies John. "One doesn't wake sleeping dogs."
"I wouldn't know," shrugs Sherlock. "I loved waking sleeping dogs, that's how I got the best cuddles."
"Of course you would," says John dryly.
Sherlock moves to the boot, opens it as he says, "Stop loitering around, this stuff isn't going to carry itself inside."
"Of course it won't carry itself inside, Your Highness," John quips when Sherlock starts pulling the bags out of the boot. "I spent quite a lot of time as your personal valet so I know."
"Stop whining," retorts Sherlock. "I brought most of it into the car, didn't I?" he asks. "Take it straight upstairs," he instructs when John reaches for the bags.
"I'm not sure…" he starts.
"Well, I am," says Sherlock simply. "If you are so worried about offending Daddy put it down in my bedroom for now and we will distribute it later."
"Yes, sir," quips John and grabs two rolling suitcases and a duffel bag.
"And stop calling me sir," calls Sherlock after him as he grabs the third one, a laptop bag and two weird looking duffels.
"Yes, madam," comes out of the house.
"Just invest in a proper satnav next time," says Sherlock as he follows John inside of the house and closes the door.
Their conversation and their appearance, without a prior warning from Sherlock, is so baffling that it takes Siger a moment to remember that he has no reason to hide from them at all.
So he climbs to his feet and dusts his jacket and trousers before he starts approaching the house. The car lures him though, especially with John's comment about not waking sleeping dogs.
Did they brought John's daughter with them?
Mal and Siger didn't met the girl but they saw photographs of her. One from Sherlock himself and several of the girl with Sherlock from John. Mal kept cooing over every single one of them for ages.
The news of Mary Watson's passing had reached them with a huge delay, huge enough to not make making it to her funeral possible but it gave them enough time to hurriedly order a wreath to be delivered to the cemetery.
Of course they brought her with them, he realises and now he just cannot resist the lure of the car. Besides he's not going to do anything other than taking a quick peek inside the car.
He gets close enough to the car to spot the shape of a car-seat in the backseat and a tiny leg sticking out from under a pink coat that's used as a blanket. Slowly he lowers himself to look at the girl without waking her and then he blinks.
Once. Twice. Trice.
There's another car-seat in there and that one is also occupied by a tiny human being.
He knows that John and Mary had one child. Mal asked Mary about it and Mary confirmed that it was a girl. A solitary baby. Sherlock when he informed them about her birth mentioned one baby Watson, not two. So, from where the other child came from?
Because it's definitely there and by the looks of it its waking up.
Seconds later a plushie hits the window. It would have hit him squarely on the nose too if they weren't separated by the glass. The hit that startles him a little wakes the other child and he finds himself at loss of what he's supposed to do.
Should he wait for Sherlock and John to come out of the house to explain themselves or should he… The child closer to him starts fussing and straining against the harness hard enough to knock the coat on the floor.
He sighs and opens the door before he gently unbuckles the child while putting one of the caps on its head. The child quite willingly subjects itself to being clothed in the coat and doesn't protest when he brings it around the car to rescue the second prisoner from the other car-seat. That one is happy about being released from harness but far less complacent about being clothed and it announces its protest quite loudly straight into his ear which prompts the other which in turn makes Siger place that one on the seat next to the car seat to finish the process.
Once both children are clothed and holding on their respective plushies he picks them both up and finally closes the car door while he tries to adjust his hold on two babies. He and Mal only had one child at a time but one of the youngest of his siblings were twins so he has some experience in balancing double weight at the same time.
Getting inside is not an easy task but it's manageable thanks to the handle on the door. Mal insisted on it even though she didn't mind knobs in the rest of the house. Once inside he takes the turn into red living room where he deposits the children on the couch and starts to remove their outwear.
The clothes that they're wearing underneath their coats and sweaters indicate that both are girls as he expects at least one of them to be. From up close and in better lit room he can tell that they both appear to be in a very similar age and both have curly hair. Although that's where the similarities between them end. The first girl he saw has dark hair and green eyes while the thrower has lighter hair (bordering on dark blonde or light brown) and blue eyes.
Both appear to be enthralled by him and docile enough to allow him to disrobe himself from his outwear just as he hears the footsteps coming down the stairs. The sound is followed by the creak of opened door and soon after by a bellowed out "Sherlock!"
John's scream startles the girls slightly and causes Sherlock to hurry down the stairs but because he's Sherlock and he notices things other people pay little attention to, he registers turned on lights in the living-room and peeks into it just as Siger walks into it from the other side.
"Found them!" shouts Sherlock. "Daddy too!" he adds after a moment. "And he found them so you can lock the car while you're out there," he calls out albeit a little more softly.
Then he turns to Siger properly and says, "So?"
Instead of answering Siger takes a proper look at his son. Sherlock looks awful. He lost weight since Siger last saw him but with malnutrition he kind of expected it. His left eye is bloodshot and he has a stitch at the edge of his left eyebrow. He's also sporting his recovering drug-addict beard.
Siger suddenly feels the urge to throttle John Watson or at the very least properly punch him in the nose.
"Don't," says Sherlock stiffly. "Just don't. Because if you do I'm taking them back to London and you will never see any of them again. Trust me, Dad, you will regret it more than I will and faster too."
Siger opens his mouth to retort but one of the girls decides to call out, "Mama!" and Sherlock, weirdly, goes to her without as much a single breath on the subject that he's not in fact a woman and that therefore he cannot be called 'Mama'.
Siger watches him take the one with darker hair into his arms before he sits down on the couch and checks her nappy. Then, while still holding onto her he checks to contents of the nappy of the other girl and calls out, "I think we need a bottle or something."
Few seconds later John walks into the room with a diaper-bag slung over his shoulder and he quickly drops it by the other girl before he fishes out of it two bottles. He puts the bag on the floor before he scoops the other one and sits down next to Sherlock as he hands him one of the bottles.
He doesn't acknowledge Siger's presence and tells Sherlock, "Try to not give her more than a half. I'm hoping to give them something more solid for proper dinner."
"I saw a lasagne in the fridge," says Sherlock.
John shakes his head and hands the uncapped bottle to the girl he's holding before he says, "Good evening Mr Holmes, we're sorry about that but…" he hangs his voice, "as you can see we're in a bit occupied."
Siger takes a deep breath and counts mentally to ten before he says as evenly as possible, "Not a problem, John. But I was under impression that you only had one daughter."
"I do," John replies simply.
"He does," Sherlock agrees before he takes a deep breath. "This one is mine," he adds softly. "Granddaughter though," he adds after a beat even more softly.
Siger blinks. Did he hear him correctly? Granddaughter. Sherlock's granddaughter. Sherlock who was gay and as far as Siger could tell hadn't been involved with anyone he found worthy of introducing to him and Mal.
He looks at the girl in Sherlock's arms and he can see it now. Sherlock's hair, his eyes, Sherlock's mimicry at that age. The girl is Sherlock's evidently… But a granddaughter?
Wait, if she's Sherlock's granddaughter that means that she's Siger's great-granddaughter and how did this happen.
Suddenly he hears a slightly muffled 'Jesus, Sherlock!' and John Watson appears before him and guides him to the armchair he has been standing by. Even once he's down in the chair John keeps holding on his wrist, checking his pulse.
"You couldn't have been a bit more subtler?" he mutters at Sherlock.
"And how would you deliver that statement with more subtlety?" asks Sherlock simply. "Because I fail to see a safe and subtle opening in there."
Of course he does because there isn't any in there and if there is Siger doesn't know it either.
And Sherlock? How shocked he had to be by the news that he had a child, let alone grandchild?
It has to be a very recent development, one that hadn't been there two days ago. So he either learned that yesterday or today.
And he came straight here to share the news with him and Mal. It couldn't have been an easy decision for him, Siger realises. Not with how strained his relationship with Mal is at the moment. But he came here and he brought her with him, and the Watson contingent as a support and a strong statement: if you want to get to know your great-granddaughter you will have to get over your issues with John Watson.
Clever boy and Mal's son to boot.
He smiles to himself softly at the thought.
"Mr Holmes?" asks John gently. "Are you feeling well?" he asks when Siger attempts to stand up and struggles with it.
"Better than the last time I got shot," Siger admits.
"You got shot?" asks John in concern. "When that happened?"
"The last time?" says Sherlock simply. "Bosnia 1992, friendly fire, he got shot in the arse by some American idiot who I have no idea what he was doing except aiming at his allies."
"Funny," chuckles Siger. "And I still have that bloody t-shirt you got me: I invaded Bosnia and all I've got was a bullet in the arse and this lousy t-shirt," he quotes before he turns to John. "You should have seen him, he was so proud of himself. Mal was furious with him, he destroyed a week worth of potatoes to have stamps for that."
"Still worth it," says Sherlock dryly.
Siger smiles and after a moment sighs, "Explain this to me, son."
"Can I show you?" asks Sherlock tiredly.