Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and is based off of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Sherlock Holmes used to have a daughter. Not many people are aware of this fact, but it is true all the same. Her name was Jane. The girl's mother wanted nothing to do with the child. But Sherlock, for all his talk, loved deeply and cared wholeheartedly. And so for her, he quit the drugs and the sex. He became a good man. When she was born, he raided all of his stashes and sold the drugs to his contacts.
And then he used the money to buy her a music box. His first gift to the greatest gift he had ever received. He had her name inscribed on the back. Jane. The wood was a beautiful, dark mahogany and the box was claw-footed. The interior of the top was a mirror, speckled with age, and the bottom was lined with the softest blue satin. When the lid lifted up a woman in a dark gown would spin and 'Clair de Lune' would play.
But it did not last. Nothing lasts and this is no different. The box is no different. This story is no different. Jane was no different.
Years later, members of Scotland Yard arrive at the flat on Baker St and begin a farcical "Drugs Bust". Sherlock is as imperious and rude to them as he usually is. Until Anderson picks up the precious, precious music box from the corner of a shelf of a bookshelf on the wall.
Sherlock goes tense and actually sits up from the sofa. And Anderson is glad to finally have rattled him. The box, he deduces, can provoke a response. He begins taunting him with the box. Sally rolls her eyes and Lestrade ignores the fight as per usual, searching the flat for the missing evidence that had instigated the "Drugs Bust" in the first place.
Sally goes to the corner of the book shelf where Anderson found the music box and studies it. Now, despite Sherlock's belief to the contrary, Sally Donovan is a good detective. And so she notices that something is off. She flashes her flash light into the back corner of the shelf and sees that there is a false wall, a panel. A thin one, but Sally believes it is a hidden stash and that they might actually have a real Drugs Bust this time. So she grins at the thought of having caught the freak, but keeps quiet while Anderson and Sherlock still argue back and forth, the freak being unusually serious.
She pries the false panel away from the edge and is somewhat disappointed at what she finds. Namely that it isn't cocaine. But when she takes a closer look at what is there, she draws up short.
There are four Polaroid photographs. The first photograph is of Sherlock holding an infant wrapped in a pink blanket, a part dumbstruck, part awestruck look on his face.
The second image is of a little girl staring in awe of a fish tank. Her hands are pressed against the glass, and her head is tilted slightly back. Her nose nearly touches the glass and her mouth is held slightly open in awe.
The third picture is of a little girl, the same little girl, sitting in Sherlock's lap and there are grins on both of their faces. She is pressing keys on a child's musical keyboard. They are both happy.
The final picture is of the little girl, mid-laugh, bundled up in autumn clothes, sitting on a swing, looking directly into the camera lens.
Sally stares at the pictures intently and picks up the small plastic bag that was also with the photographs. Inside the bag is a clipping of wavy, black hair, tied at the top with a pink ribbon.
She picks up the last item that had been trapped behind the panel. It is a folded and aged piece of paper. She gently picks the relic up and pulls the folds apart. In her hand she holds a child's drawing of two people holding hands. One is the little girl herself and the other is her father. A tall man with a mop of curly black hair atop his head. Sherlock Holmes. The drawing is addressed "For Daddy. I lov you vary much."
Donovan stares at the drawing in her hands and realizes. Understands. And her heart breaks.
And then she hears a clatter and a loud shattering noise. She looks up.
And she nearly falls apart.
A music box lay on the ground. The glass from the mirror is shattered into a hundred pieces, scattered across the floor and a few shards lay in the box itself. The dancer in the box spins and the music plays. It is Clair de Lune.
And Sherlock is staring at the box unseeing. He is unnaturally still, even for Sherlock. His lips part only the smallest amount and he lets out a shuddered breath.
"Get out," he says monotonely, with no inflection or emotion present.
Everyone pauses.
Anderson rolls his eyes and says, "Oh, come on. Look, I'm sorry I broke your little music box. I'm sure the Yard will reimburse you for it."
"I said 'Get out'," Sherlock repeats just as emotionlessly, his eyes still not shifting from the music box.
"Sherlock, we need to find the evidence. We're not leaving until we do. You can't just steal things from lockup without us coming to steal them back!" Lestrade laments.
"It's on the small table by the door, underneath the bowl of teeth. Now, get out," he states in a monotone voice.
Lestrade rolls his eyes and begins to reply, "Sher-," but is interrupted.
"Please," Sherlock says.
Everyone stops. And then they begin to notice how robotic he seems to have become. Even less present, even less feeling than usual.
"Are you okay?" Lestrade asks.
Sherlock's nostrils flair as he releases a shaky exhale. He blinks his eyes shut and a solitary tear rolls down one cheek.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade asks with concern.
Anderson rolls his eyes, "Are you serious? He cries fake tears every other day! He's a psychopath! He's not actually upset! He's just trying to manipulate you! I mean, can't you-."
Donovan interrupts him and says, "Shut up, Anderson!"
Everyone turns to her, save Sherlock who opens his eyes again and resumes staring at the broken music box. Sally keeps her eyes on him.
"Is... is that hers? Is it her music box?" she asks Sherlock after an uncomfortable pause.
He nods one time.
"She's beautiful," Sally says gently, looking down at the photographs in her hand.
He nods once and quietly says, "She was."
She looks back up and asks, "What's her name?"
Sherlock remains quiet. Many of the officers shift uncomfortably, baffled by the turn of events.
He finally answers, in a voice so quiet, she strains to hear it.
"Jane. Her name was Jane," Sherlock says in a whisper, finally lifting his eyes from the shattered memento to look at Sally.
She shifts under his penetrating gaze and cannot bring herself to meet his eyes. She looks back down at the items in her hand and suddenly feels absolutely vile. For the way she and the rest of the force have labeled this man a psychopath, for walking into his home on a regular basis to overturn all of his belongings, for being so ungrateful to him for the service that he provides them with for free, for the horrible things they have said to him and about him without ever wondering about the man himself.
Because the little girl in these photographs knew a different man. Knew a father who was caring and loving and doting.
When she finally meets his eyes, she sees a hurt in them that she had never noticed before.
She says the only thing she could think to say to the man.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so very, very sorry."
Sherlock looks away.
"What are you talking about? Who is Jane?" Anderson exclaims.
Neither Sherlock nor Sally answers and everyone else in the room wonders the same thing as Anderson.
"Really. Who is Jane?" Anderson asks.
"She's my daughter," Sherlock bluntly announces.
"You have a daughter?" Anderson asks in disbelief.
Sherlock doesn't answer.
"Well, where is she?" he asks.
"Kensington," Sherlock says to the window.
"What's she doing there?" Anderson demands.
Sherlock meets Anderson's eyes and says, "Decomposing."
Eyes widen around the room and many look back to the shattered music box on the floor.
"Can I... can I ask what happened?" Sally cannot resist asking.
Sherlock gives her a nasty glare, then stands in front of the window and begins to play his violin.
The door at the bottom of the staircase opens and footsteps can be heard climbing the stairs.
"Sherlock, I have Thai from that new-," he says as he walks into the room and sees the overturned flat.
And he sees the music box and says, "Oh, god."
Sherlock's violin fill the silence that would have enveloped the room.
Then, John speaks up, "I think it's time for you to go, Lestrade."
Lestrade sharply nods a single time. He walks over to the table Sherlock had mentioned and picks up the stolen evidence, then signals the officers to follow him out.
Sally is the last to leave and when she turns to shut the door she glances for a moment at the stiff silhouette of the man at the window.
"Why did you name her Jane?" she could not help but ask before she left.
He almost smiles and says, "Because it was boring. Plain. It was so wonderfully normal and ordinary and unremarkable. Unusual names, like my own, carry expectations. And she should have had the choice to be whomever she wanted to be."
"What was she like?" Sally begs.
Sherlock is silent for a long pause. Sally is about to leave when he finally has an answer for her.
"She was perfect, in every way. She was so good. She was kind and sweet and caring and giving. And she was curious about everything. She wanted to know all that there was to know. She never stopped asking questions. She loved animals, and music, and stories, and swinging, and me. She loved me very much," he says.
He stops speaking.
"Keep talking. Tell me more about her," Sally demands.
"She loved me so much. More than anyone else in the world. She thought I was the most wonderful thing there ever was. She thought that I was just as perfect as she was. And it made me want to be everything that she thought I was. I wanted to be as good and as helpful and as kind and giving as she thought I was. She made me better. In every possible way," he says.
"Tell me more," Sally begs.
"I stopped using for her. I took all of the drugs I had stashed away and I sold them to different dealers. And right after, I walked down the street and in the display of a shop was a music box. A beautiful music box. And I knew that the box was meant to be hers. I walked in and bought it. I had her name inscribed on it. Jane. She loved that music box. She would stare at it for hours, just listening to Clair de Lune and watching that dancer twirl," he finishes abruptly.
He never turns from the window.
"I think you should go now, Donovan," he informs her.
She nods at John who has remained silent. She says nothing to Sherlock.
She shuts the door behind her and walks down the stairs.
Sherlock continues to stare out of the window. He watches the police drive away from 221.
John puts the food on the table and walks into the kitchen to put on the kettle.
Nothing more is said that night because there is nothing more to say and there is nothing more to be said.
The End