Bit of a fluff chapter, but I liked it!
Sunlight filtered through the heavy clouds, barely illuminating the already dull, dusty flat. The living room was quiet, except the out-of-sync ticking of several clocks. Sherlock sat in his armchair with one leg crossed over the other, his arms laid flat over the armrests as he gripped the edges with his hands. He was squinting slightly, focusing ahead with his lips pursed.
"So, tell me about yourself," he said in a low, serious voice.
Vaughan sat in the armchair opposite; his legs outstretched in front of him, too short to reach the edge. His round blue eyes observed Sherlock through darks curls that had fallen into his face.
"What do you like to do? What are your interests?"
Vaughan continued to sit quietly, gazing at his father blankly.
"Do you like literature? Chemistry?" Sherlock continued as Mrs Hudson walked in. "Any good at solving crimes?"
"Oh, Sherlock, don't be ridiculous, he's a baby," she said as she placed a tray of tea on the table next to him.
"Yes, Mrs Hudson, but he's my baby, which means there must be something more remarkable about him."
Vaughan scrunched his face at Sherlock like he had taken offence to his comment. Sherlock pulled a face back at him.
"He is remarkable," said Mrs Hudson. "He's here isn't he. And against all those odds."
"Ah yes, yes very sentimental; 'children are miracles' blah blah blah."
Mrs Hudson tutted, shook her head and left the room.
Sherlock turned his attention back to Vaughan. He sighed and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "In all my extensive study and knowledge, I never thought communicating with a one-year-old would be something I had to know."
Vaughan giggled. "Silly," he said.
Sherlock leaned back, placing his hand on his chest as if he were terribly offended, "I silly?" he replied.
Vaughan continued to giggle; the sound was sweet and light, like bubbles. Sherlock's cold expression began to crack, his face creasing into a warm smile. Then he began to laugh too.
III
Margaux couldn't keep still. The water in her glass rippled as her knees bounced against the table leg. She looked around the café for what felt like the fiftieth time. Nothing. She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist. She picked up the small, one-sided menu and skimmed over it again.
"Terribly sorry," a voice came from behind. "A national security issue arose."
Margaux looked up to see Mycroft taking a seat opposite her. "Well I hope it's all okay now?"
"As it can be," he replied absentmindedly, more focused on wiping down every surface with a handkerchief from his pocket before he touched anything.
"Not a regular here then?" She asked cynically.
Mycroft peered around the small, 'greasy spoon' café with a grimace. "I prefer my breakfasts without the risk of salmonella."
"Well I do apologise for putting you through this utter horror, Mycroft."
He smiled a sarcastic smile before clicking at the big, burly man behind the counter. "Sparkling water," he called out.
The server's brows raised and his fists curled, the gaps from his missing teeth now visible as he almost growled at Mycroft.
Margaux slapped her head with her hand. She looked over at the server apologetically. "Does being completely socially inept run in the family? Or is it just Sherlock and you?"
Mycroft turned his attention back to Margaux, fixing his suit and clasping his hands together on the table in front of him.
"Well our parents are nauseatingly delightful, so it's hard to say really."
They looked up to see the server glaring at Mycroft; he slammed a glass of water down on the table and rummaged through the pocket of his apron, pulling out a small, possibly used, cocktail umbrella. He opened it and tossed it into the drink. Walking away slowly. Margaux stifled a laugh, covering her mouth to hide her smile. Mycroft looked down at the glass in disgust, using his handkerchief to push it away.
"Anyway," he said. "what seems to be the problem?"
"I asked to meet with you because I want to know why... Why you didn't tell me he was still alive. In all those times I met with you, when I told you I was pregnant with his child, when you saw how absolutely devastated I was..."
"It had to be believed, almost to the point where it became fact. Not even John Watson knew."
"But–"
"Even the people that did know where sworn to secrecy."
Margaux thought about it for a moment. "Okay, fine. But in that case, why you didn't tell him about Vaughan," said Margaux. "While he was gone, I'm certain you had some contact with him, so why didn't you tell him?"
"Why? I had him located all over the world, in extremely dangerous situations. I couldn't possibly compromise those missions, or risk that he may attempt to return to London sooner than planned."
"So why not once he came back?"
Mycroft paused for a moment.
"Because my brother is reckless. He lacks empathy. He's a loner, an addict, and I think your son–"
"Who is also your nephew."
"Would do better in his absence," Mycroft finished.
"I don't think you give him enough credit for what he's capable of."
"What? Sex? Anyone is capable of that, even Sherlock. No offence." He gestured to her. "Though that doesn't mean I wasn't surprised–"
"Mycroft."
He sighed. "For the past two years, I have had eyes on you and your son. Watching and making sure that you're safe, comfortable, not in danger."
"I suppose from a Holmes, that's a relatively sweet gesture."
"It is how we work best, Margaux. From a distance. That's why I didn't tell him."
Margaux took a sip of water. "He wants a relationship with Vaughan. He wants to try. How do you explain that? A self-proclaimed sociopath like Sherlock Holmes..."
"I learned a long time ago to stop analysing my siblings." Mycroft stood up from his seat. He pressed a button on his phone and lifted it to his ear before continuing to speak to Margaux. "Maybe he's changing. Softening in his new-found role." He stepped away, speaking on his phone.
Margaux turned in her chair and watched him walk away. "You know you are his uncle. Wouldn't hurt you to soften a little either," she called out. "Instead of watching us from afar."
She checked her watch, it was almost time for her second lecture of the day. She picked up her bag and left the café.
III
Darkness had fallen quickly, bringing a cold wind with it. The streetlamps glowed a warm orange, illuminating the quiet roads that peeled away from bustling highstreets and busy traffic.
Margaux crept up the stairs, a single strip of light poured from the crack in the doorway at the end of the landing. She could hear a violin. A soft, gentle melody that dipped and flowed like a hymn or a lullaby. She got to the door and opened it slowly.
Sherlock noticed her walk in, he smiled at her and continued to play. She smiled too, admiring the song even more now she could hear it clearly. Vaughan was lying on the couch asleep, curled under a blanket, half his face hidden behind his favourite dummy. She regarded Sherlock again, this time noticing how tired he looked; his dark curly hair was curlier than usual, falling into his eyes and sticking up slightly at his crown, the first few buttons of his pale blue shirt had been undone and a tea towel was draped over one of his shoulders. On the coffee table were bottles and cups, nappies, wipes, half-eaten snacks. It was as if he had been watching a full playgroup of children as opposed to one, very well behaved boy. She couldn't help but smile.
"You got him to sleep?" She whispered.
"Only just," he replied. "I'm scared that if I stop playing, he'll wake up again. How do toddlers work?"
She laughed, "You can stop."
Sherlock stopped playing, breathing a sigh of relief as Vaughan continued to sleep. He put his violin down.
"Sorry I took so long," said Margaux. "My last lecture ran over and then I got stuck taking a seminar for another module."
"Would you like some tea?" Sherlock asked as he walked into the kitchen.
"Please." She followed. "So, how was it?"
"How was what?"
"Being here. By yourself. With Vaughan. For the first time."
"Well it went better than the last time I saw him."
"The last time you saw him, you tried to shake his hand. He grabbed your finger and tried to put it in his mouth."
"Exactly, so this time was better," he said as he flicked the switch on the kettle.
He turned around and leant back against the counter, folding his arms over the undone part of his shirt. He yawned. He seemed so... human.
"Well he definitely makes you earn your sleep," she said.
He nodded. "I've worked on murder cases less stressful."
Margaux laughed. "I've come to expect nothing less from a child who is half Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock smiled, their eyes locked on each other. The kettle clicked. He broke eye contact quickly, turning to pour the water.
"Truthfully," Margaux began. "I was... apprehensive about leaving you alone with him today." She spoke to his back as he continued making the tea. "It's just... being a father. I get the feeling it was never really on the cards for you. Then I come along and suddenly you've got this little boy and you've already missed out on so much of his life and then I'm asking you to babysit like it's all completely normal–"
"Milk and sugar?"
"Um, yes please, two sugars. But... Sherlock, I–"
"I know what you're trying to say," he said, turning around to face her again. "And you're right. Procreating was never something I intended to do, both because I am not an emotionally nurturing person, but also because I did not feel the need to bring a child into the world when inevitably, I would absolutely, without a doubt screw them up."
Margaux looked down at the ground.
"But he is here," he said. "And stranger things have happened... I came back from the dead, surely I'm capable of having a pleasant relationship with my son." He smiled.
Margaux breathed an internal sigh of relief. She looked up at him and smiled back.
III
She carried Vaughan into Sherlock's bedroom and tucked him in the middle of the bed, pillows surrounding him like a wall. She came back into the living room and sat in the armchair opposite Sherlock.
"Thanks for letting me put him in there," she said. "He's very easily woken by the sound of voices and stuff."
"When are you going to learn to stop thanking me for these things? Letting my son sleep in my bed isn't a favour."
"I know, I know, sorry."
Rain began to patter on the windows. They sipped at their tea in the warm, dim lamplight of the flat.
"Are you impressed by how well I'm handling all of this?" He smiled smugly.
Margaux scoffed. "Sure, now that he eats without getting most of it on his clothes and can somewhat communicate, I'm sure you're finding it a breeze."
Sherlock laughed in his throat, he had missed winding her up over the past two years.
"I'd have paid to see you while I was in labour, pushing out a baby, demanding all of the drugs."
"Sounds wonderful," he replied calmly, a smile creeping through.
"Oh yeah? All that screaming and contracting, all the... fluids."
"Mhm, I'm devastated that I missed it."
"The blood, the sweat, the crying."
"Quite frankly, Margaux, now you're just turning me on."
There was a long silence before Margaux burst into laughter. Sherlock allowed himself another quiet giggle.
"I didn't think you were capable of being turned on. I didn't think that was in your very limited repertoire of emotions."
"I'm not. But I became very good at doing it to you."
"Are you trying to insinuate that I'm easily seduced?" Margaux asked in disbelief.
"I'm not insinuating, I'm telling you that you are."
Margaux's brows came together, one corner of her mouth lifting, causing a dimple to form in her cheek.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"So you used me." She thought back to her meeting with Mycroft. His words echoing around her head. 'Sex? Anyone is capable of that, even Sherlock.' No. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. And Sherlock was lying, playing up to the sociopath he had painted himself to be.
"If you truly believe that I used you, then it was only as much as you used me," he said.
"I didn't use you." She felt a pang of hurt in her chest.
"Then I didn't use you either."
They took another sip of tea simultaneously.
"You're not that good of an actor," she said, shaking her head. "And I'm not that easily led."
"Love makes you do silly things."
"I'm not in love with you." Margaux's words were quiet, like they were struggling to come to the surface.
III
The rain grew heavier, pelting the windows as if it were hard enough to smash through. They had been talking for hours, though it only felt like moments. Margaux stood up and walked to the window.
"Bloody hell, it's only getting worse. I may have to leave Vaughan here tonight; waking him up at this time, just to take him out in that rain seems stupid," she turned to Sherlock. "If that's okay with you? I'd come back for him first thing in the morning."
Sherlock stood up and joined her at the window, standing close enough for his clean scent to envelope her. He made a noise deep in his throat, like he was thinking.
"You should stay too, save yourself the trip," he said plainly.
"Oh don't worry about me."
"No, I insist. I'll sleep in John's old room."
"Are you sure?"
He looked down at her. "Of course, I'm sure." He walked away, leaving her at the window, and headed for the kitchen. "A night cap?"
"Sure... Sherlock, I couldn't possibly borrow a tee shirt or something? Since I'm staying?"
"Mrs Hudson left a fresh pile of laundry on the chair in my room," Sherlock called out as he poured two glasses of brandy.
She flicked on the lamp on the bedside table. It was dim and buzzed slightly. She sifted through the pile of clothes; shirts, trousers, more shirts, until she came across a tee shirt. It was the one she had worn a few times after spending the night with him. It almost felt as though it was hers, since she had never seen him wear it. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the fresh, laundered scent. She kicked off her shoes, slid off her trousers and unbuttoned her blouse. She slipped the tee shirt over her head and flicked her hair out from under the neck. It was short, barely covering her underwear. She looked through the pile for some shorts or pyjama bottoms. Nothing.
She walked back through to the kitchen, holding the hem of the tee shirt down. He had placed her glass of brandy on the kitchen table and was sitting sipping on his own. His eyes traced her body as she walked into the room, just for a moment, before he realised and stopped himself.
"Any pyjama bottoms? Shorts? Joggers?" She asked.
"What are joggers?"
She sighed. "Never mind." She pulled out her chair and sat opposite him.
"So how is it here without John?" Margaux asked.
"There's no one to annoy. Which in itself is annoying." He smiled.
"I'm sure he still comes here a lot though, with you working on cases together?"
"He's here most days. It's the nights which are different."
Neither of them spoke after that; sharing the occasional glance and soft smile as they finished their drinks.
When they were empty, Margaux took the glasses and placed them in the sink. She walked into the living room, collecting the bottles, cups and bowls that had been scattered around the place. She walked back to the kitchen, throwing them into the basin and filling the sink with warm, soapy water. She felt a shift behind her and the scraping of Sherlock's chair against the floor.
She stood, waiting for the water to fill when suddenly, his cool, soft hands wrapped themselves around her waist. She turned her head, glancing up at him from the corner of her eye as he stood behind her. His body began to press against her back, his breath growing closer to her ear. She shivered. His lips grazed her ear, travelling down to her neck where he planted his first hungry kiss. She gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, unable to speak, as he continued to kiss her neck, gripping her waist firmly with his hands. She leaned her head back, welcoming it, her breath growing heavier as she pressed her body into his. Then suddenly, he stopped. His lips were gone and his hands disappeared from around her waist. She gasped, plummeting back to reality, her mind still cloudy, her body still tingling. She turned swiftly to look at him.
He was stepping back towards the table with a smirk.
"I told you; easily seduced," he said before walking towards the door. "And you said I'm not that good of an actor."
She stormed towards him furiously, her hands still wet from the sink, following him into his bedroom. She opened her mouth as if to shout but he held a finger to his lips, pointing at Vaughan sleeping in his bed.
"I can't believe you just did that," she whispered.
"Did what? Proved my point?"
"You are unbelievable."
"Thank you."