Note: There was a lot of conflicting research about the first names of Sherlock Holmes' parents. In the end, I chose the ones that were most often cited in essays/analysis of the Arthur Conan Doyle stories. They were also the ones I liked the best so I went with them!

The room was quiet except for the occasional clacking of cups against saucers. Sherlock sat in his chair with one leg crossed over the other staring ahead stonily. His parents sat on the couch sipping their tea. His father cleared his throat. Sherlock snapped his head around to look at him with burning intensity.

"Oh for goodness sake, Sherlock. How long are you going to keep this going?" said his mother.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied.

"If anything, we should be angry with you. Fancy that, keeping a love child a secret from your parents," his mother continued. Sherlock grimaced at the phrase 'love child'. "And at your age–"

"Fancy turning up at the flat of a woman you've never met trying to spy on her and her child… At your age."

"We weren't spying."

A faint knock echoed up the staircase. Sherlock watched as his parents shifted in their seats; his father's posture straightened. His mother grasped her necklace and twiddled it between her fingers. They waited quietly for a few moments before another knock.

"Well aren't you going to get that?" asked his father.

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed. "Door!"

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson could be heard shuffling around panicked, cursing Sherlock and his laziness. The door creaked open followed by a muffled conversation and footsteps up the wooden stairs.

When Margaux walked into the room, he felt a sense of calm that only came with familiarity. Like climbing into your own bed after a night away, or the perfume your mother wore when you were a child. Her hair was dark and glossy – her natural waves bouncing just below her collarbones framing her lightly freckled face, providing stark contrast to her amber-hued eyes. She clutched Vaughan's hand who stood at her side. He was wrapped in a coat and scarf; his plump cheeks red from the cold.

Sherlock stood up from his chair and walked over to greet them. He took their coats and gestured for them to go and sit down.

"Margaux, these are my parents; Siger and Violet Holmes."

"Very nice to meet you." She shook their hands and sat down, lifting Vaughan onto her lap.

"What a lovely name, Margaux. French origin meaning pearl," said Mrs Holmes.

"Thank you, I always thought it sounded like I was named after a bottle of wine."

"The Chateau Margaux is an excellent red," said Mr Holmes absentmindedly.

Sherlock cringed.

"So you must be Vaughan?" Mrs Holmes smiled.

Vaughan nodded, curling into his mother shyly.

"He'll come out of his shell in a few minutes," Margaux reassured.

"Of course, we're just happy to finally meet you."

"'Finally' she says, like she didn't only find out you existed six days ago," said Sherlock.

"So, Margaux, our son never mentioned what you do for a living…" his mother continued, purposely ignoring him.

"Well I'm a doctor of forensic psychology," Margaux began.

"Small talk. Great. Wonderful," Sherlock muttered. "Vaughan, shall we go and look at some cells under the microscope?"

"Yes!" Vaughan jumped down excitedly, as if he'd just been offered ice cream or a new toy.

He ran to his father with his arms outstretched. Sherlock slid open the doors and together they disappeared into the kitchen.

"Anyway, as I was saying… my doctorate is in forensic psychology. I teach it at the university, but I used to work as a forensic investigator."

"Ah is that how you met Sherlock?"

"Yes, it is."

"Not exactly love at first sight, I'd imagine," said Mr Holmes.

Margaux laughed. "No, not exactly." She was in awe of how laid back they were; so calm and pleasant, so ordinary in the most wonderful way.

It was strange to think that her son could be made up of parts of two people she had never met before that day. She had always seen a resemblance of Sherlock in Vaughan but now she was seeing the inheritance. Sherlock's father's smile was an emblem, his mother's striking blue eyes were heirlooms.

She talked with them for a while. They seemed thankful for her willingness to get to know them; to share stories and ask questions. With sons like Sherlock and Mycroft, they would often be reduced to nothing more than embarrassing parents. But Margaux took interest in the small things, like stories from Sherlock's childhood, where they would visit on holidays, how proud they were of even the smallest achievements. Mrs Holmes' intelligence was unmatched – pure genius wrapped in a warm, kind shell. If she was her mother, Margaux thought, she would never stop wanting to learn from her.

Sherlock and Vaughan joined them in the living room as Mr Holmes was speaking.

"Whatever you feel is best, Margaux," he continued. "We don't want to confuse the boy."

"Or step on his other grandparent's toes," Mrs Homes added.

"That won't be possible. Margaux's parents are, more than likely, not even aware of their grandson's existence. Nor would they care," said Sherlock from across the room.

Margaux felt her heart rattle in her chest. She looked at him open mouthed. Even for Sherlock, the insensitivity caught her off guard.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry," said Mrs Holmes.

Margaux shook her head, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's fine." The words struggled to leave her.

"Pardon me if I'm speaking out of turn, but is it irrevocable?" asked Mr Holmes.

"Neglect and emotional abuse from infanthood to emancipation at fifteen. Even if she, for some ridiculous reason, wanted a relationship. It is unlikely the feeling would be reciprocated." Sherlock spoke bluntly, as if he were spouting a general fact.

"Oh, Sherlock," said Mrs Holmes. "I apologise for our son's lack of filter."

"I'm more than used to it by now," Margaux reassured. She forced a small laugh, shaking away the sadness that was beginning to well up inside her. She called Vaughan over and sat him on her lap again. "Vaughan," she began. "do you know who this is?" she pointed at Mr and Mrs Holmes.

Vaughan shook his head.

"They are your Daddy's Mummy and Daddy. Do you know what that means?"

He shook his head again.

"That means that they are your Nanny and Grandad."

Vaughan looked at them curiously.

"We are so happy to meet you," said Mrs Holmes.

Vaughan turned to Sherlock who was sitting in his armchair. "Your mummy and daddy?" He pointed at the couple.

"Yes. My… Mummy and Daddy." He forced the words out.

Margaux smiled. Vaughan giggled. He seemed excited; suddenly recognising himself in them. He climbed down from Margaux's lap and walked up to them, showing them a glass slide he had been clutching in his fist.

"Oh, what's this you've got?" said Mr Holmes.

"Blood sample," he replied in his sweet, light voice.

Margaux glared at Sherlock.

"He wanted to keep it," said Sherlock with a shrug. "What? It's not like it's his blood."

They talked a while longer, until the afternoon sun beamed through the windows, casting light over the dust that lay across every surface. Sherlock told them it was time for them to leave. They seemed unbothered by his abruptness as they stood up and slipped on their coats and scarves.

"Well it was so nice to meet you both," said Margaux.

"And you. I must say, we never thought we'd see the day when we'd be introduced to a lovely lady–"

"Wonderful," Sherlock interrupted sarcastically. "Yes, Sherlock is a monster, we are all surprised he has reproduced." He ushered them to the door.

Margaux followed, reaching out to hug them.

"Thank you," whispered Mrs Holmes.

"What for?" she replied quietly.

"For saving him. For loving him for who he is, and letting him love you."

"Oh, Mrs Holmes. I love your son because he's Vaughan's father. But there's no relationship here… He doesn't work like that."

"Don't give up on him." Mrs Holmes' looked into Margaux's eyes in a silent plea.

"Anyway," Mr Holmes began as they headed out of the door. "We'd love to have you, Sherlock and Vaughan for Christmas."

"It's February," said Sherlock bluntly.

Margaux hit him gently on the chest. "Christmas would be lovely," she said. "But of course, we will arrange to visit soon as well."

They managed to draw a smile from Sherlock before leaving. Margaux listened to the front door close downstairs before turning to him.

"They're so normal," she smiled.

"Why is everyone always so surprised?"

"Because you're just… not."

He rolled his eyes and looked into Vaughan's pram where the toddler was napping soundly.

"Anyway, I should go," she said.

"When I said visiting time had ended, I didn't mean you."

She collected the cups and saucers and carried them to the kitchen. She placed them in the sink carefully and turned on the tap, stopping for a moment, staring blankly at the running water.

"Why did you say those things about me to your parents?" She turned off the tap. "I never told you any of that."

"You did," he stepped into the kitchen. "Just not with words."

"Come off it, Sherlock. How could you know…" She trailed off as he walked towards her.

"Your father was a selfish alcoholic who left when you were a baby. Your mother was an abusive narcissist. But unlike narcissists with more than one child who distribute their abuse, you were an only child so you received it all. She would humiliate you on purpose. Not buying you clothes that fit, not explaining to you about puberty or menstruation, telling people your embarrassing stories. As a child, you were treated as a chore. As you got older, you became a burden. You would be left alone for long periods of time. Days, weeks. You would go hungry; dehydrated, starving. This is evident in the fact that even now, you never leave food on your plate, even if you're full. People would notice your malnourishment, report it to authorities. But she always knew just when to come back and pretend everything was fine. Which is why you never told anyone the extent of the neglect until you were fourteen. Because you always thought nobody would believe you. Because the miniscule moments of kindness were worth the months of neglect. She made you feel ugly, which is why it's hard for you to accept compliments. She would ridicule and oppress your academic talents which is why you display such diffidence when referring to yourself as 'Doctor'. She would make her problems your fault, which is why you're always sorry. Even when it's not your fault. You're sorry. You were blamed for everything; her bad luck, her misfortune. You were blamed for your father leaving, for your mother not being able to follow her dreams, you were blamed when her relationships would break down because she was convinced that you, a child, were flirting with her creepy boyfriends. I see it in the way you look at Molly Hooper. Guilty. As if you have taken me away from her even though I was never hers to begin with. There is a scar on your right shoulder from where you were burnt with a cigarette. There is a scar on your left forearm where you attempted to take your own life but changed your mind last minute, hence the shallowness of the scar and hesitation mark. The day after you did that, you went to the police. Emancipated a year later. Still tormented by the fact that she never tried to find you. She wasn't charged, but you were removed from her life and she barely even noticed."

A tear escaped the corner of Margaux's eye as she tried to stop her bottom lip from trembling. She wiped away the tear and cleared her throat.

"Well…" she began, losing the words before they had even formed in her mind. She turned to the sink and started washing the cups.

"But as they say, it made you the person you are today," he said, a speck of guilt flickering through him.

"No, it didn't," she said. "It's not something I'm thankful for. It didn't shape me into the person I am today. It wasn't a motivator for me. In fact, it made every success I've ever had harder to achieve." She looked up at him again. "Neglect. Do you know what that feels like? To be so unremarkable, so unlikeable that they just… don't care about you. To spend your life wondering why you were so unworthy of love. It's not a badge of honour. It's a scar. A big, ugly reminder of the fact that I wasn't even given a chance." The tears were falling quickly now, dripping from her jawline and clouding her vision. She tried to keep her voice calm and low as she spoke. "Your mother thanked me as she was leaving today. She hugged me and she thanked me for being in your life. Because she loves you so much, her worst fear is your loneliness. I will never know what that's like."

The kitchen fell into silence besides Margaux's occasional sniffing. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. He stepped towards her slowly and reached out his arms. She looked up at him and watched as he tentatively pulled her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around him, the feeling of security overwhelming as his hold tightened around her.

Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. Lestrade. It must have been a bad one for him to call, he thought.

"I think this is a case," he said quietly.

Margaux lifted her head from his chest, placing her hand over the wet patch of tears she had left on his shirt. "You better answer it," she gave a half smile.

She packed Vaughan's things into his bag and covered him in layers of blankets as he continued to sleep in his pram. She put on her gloves and was buttoning her coat when Sherlock walked in from the kitchen.

"I'll give it to Lestrade, it seems rather interesting," he said.

"Well you better call John and get on it."

"Yes, yes you're right. Here, let me help you downstairs with that."

"By 'that' do you mean our child?"

"Our child plus pram and other items, yes."

Vaughan awoke on the bumpy journey down the steps, smiling as he watched his parents struggle to turn the sharp corner. When they finally reached the bottom, Sherlock opened the door for them and helped them outside. They stood on the street for a moment before he waved down a cab.

"Do you want a lift home?" He asked.

"No don't worry, we'll walk. You've got to get on the case."

The cab stopped. Sherlock nodded and opened the door.

"Be safe," said Margaux as she began to push the pram away.

"Bye daddy," said Vaughan.

Sherlock waved at him and climbed in the cab.

He spent the entire drive thinking about a young girl. Alone in a dark, cold house. Her amber eyes heavy and sad. He wondered why he felt such an urge to save her. To take her away from that place and make her feel loved.