Chapter Two

Created on 9/23/13, 2:35PM.

Inspired, this time, by the page "Sherlockian Lovers", and, more specifically, the Admin ParanoidBassonist :)


John stared out the window of the cab as rain droplets slowly traced paths down the foggy glass. It was cold out, freezing, actually, and the heat that had rolled out of the cab when he'd opened the door had been more than welcome. After directing the cabbie—but not before getting a good look and memorizing the man's face, as he always did, these days, just in case—to Baker Street, he'd sat back against the seat, and watched as rain began slowly began to fall from the sky, first, in tiny little droplets no bigger than gnats, but soon growing to fat, slow-falling drops that pelted the roof of the car like soft hailstones.

Only a few minutes had passed of the cabbie's quiet, inconsequential chatter, before John's mind started to wander. Unfortunately, the only things it had to wander over were the last the few days that he'd spent away from Baker Street visiting his sister.

To say that things hadn't gone well was, well…an understatement.

The moment he'd gotten there, things had gone wrong. No, scratch that, even before he'd gotten there things had gone wrong. Five minutes before the cab had pulled up infront of her door and she'd called him, having worked herself up into a right fit, practically shouting at him through the speakers that they'd pulled some dead mermaids out of the water over in America, and that she was serious this time, that it wasn't fake.

He'd sighed, because mermaids were just another one of his sister's infamous problems. According to her, they were 'a serious issue', and any time some half-wit attention seeker started posting pictures of a supposed 'specimen' they'd found, she went half out of her mind obsessing over it.

Clara, when they'd been together, had always helped with calming her down, but ever since Harry had left her—and John still wasn't sure why she had done that, because all Harry talked about was how much she missed her and how she was an idiot for leaving and it was all her fault (though, on some level he didn't want to admit, he did understand)—it had gotten worse.

"Harry, Harry, I am two minutes away," He'd said, sending the cabbie an apologetic look, because he'd somehow accidentally set the phone to speaker when he answered, and she'd almost scared the man to death, "Really, I can see your house right now. I'm going to hang up, and we'll talk inside, okay?"

Rather than answer, she'd hung up, and a few seconds later, out of the window, he'd seen her door burst open as she jumped out onto the front lawn, her phone visibly clutched in her hand as she waved at the cab, wearing—to his mortification, but not surprise—nothing but a red bathrobe.

Cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, he'd paid the cabbie, then flung his door open and practically leapt out of the car before it had even pulled to a complete stop, intent on intercepting his obviously drunk sister before she could stumble any further toward the road.

"John!" She'd exclaimed upon seeing him, a wide, excited smile on her face as she clutched the robe around her with one hand and waved her phone at him with the other, "John, did you hear? Mermaids!"

The phone dropped from her hand, and he quickly snatched it out of the air before it could hit the ground, then caught her arm gently, stopping her as she bent over to try to get it, "Yes, Harry," He said, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, "You just told me. Now come on, it's cold out here, why don't we head inside?" He tugged lightly on her arm, pulling her toward the house and away from the blatantly staring eyes of her neighbors.

She followed him willingly once she realized that her phone wasn't on the ground like she'd thought, babbling loudly the whole way that she'd seen pictures, that she was sure that the mermaids were real this time, that he had to believe her, because they were a serious issue, and all the while, the smell of alcohol was just hanging in the air around her like the cloying scent of a too-heavy perfume.

Already starting to question why he'd bothered to come in the first place, he'd smiled grimly, remembering without amusement that Sherlock had been right yet again about Harry still drinking, even though she'd sworn up and down that this year she really would stop.

The rest of that day had been spent helping Harry sober up and attempting to calm her down about the mermaids. She showed him photo after photo of the bodies that had been found, detailing to him exactly how and why they weren't right. The fingers were too long, the webbing in between them too thin, the skin too smooth, and the fish's tail just completely wrong.

And he'd sat in the rolling chair she'd offered him, and let her talk over the mugs of steaming coffee he'd made them both, and listened quietly, because he knew how important it was to her.

He'd only been five at the time, so he didn't really remember much, just the sudden, panicked sound of his mum shouting, and the way she raced past where he and his father had been building a sand castle, her feet kicking it back into dust as she raced towards the water, waving her arms and screaming at the top of her lungs for someone to help her daughter.

He recalled vague flashes of people running back and forth, his father scooping him safely into his arms and out of harm's way as strangers ran to the water that he was afraid to play in, the sharp, clear sound of a whistle being blown, and the terrifying image of his mother screaming and struggling against the hold of several men after she tried to reach the water, but twisted her ankle before she could get there, and then still insisted that she try to swim out.

Harry had been swept away from the shore.

Harry was gone.

That understanding hit him soon after his father gave him over to his mother, who enfolded him in her sand-caked arms, crying into his hair and squeezing him almost painfully tight as she tried to reassure him that everything would be alright.

After that, it hadn't taken long for him to start crying too.

It had been more than an hour later that his parents had woken him from the distress-induced sleep he'd falling into in his mother's arms—she refused to let go of him, as though afraid she'd lose him too—telling him softly that it was alright, that Harry was safe, and that they were on their way to see her at the hospital right now, that he didn't need to cry anymore.

She'd been out on the open water for a full hour before rescue boats managed to reach her.

A miracle, they called it.

A few days later, when she'd recovered enough to be brought home, and long after their parents had finally fallen asleep, Harry and John sat in the dark in the pillow fort they'd made out of chairs and the end of her bed, with only a flashlight between them to soften the dark's intimidating presence.

He'd refused to let go of her hand, and insisted she use his special blanket to keep warm, unable to forget the way her lips had been blue and her skin chilled white in the few moments he'd been able to see her at the hospital before doctors and nurses converged around her bed, blocking her from his sight.

He never wanted to see his sister that way again.

And in the dark, as he started to cry again, softly, because he'd almost lost her, she'd hugged him, and whispered in his ear that it was alright, that he would never lose her, and could she tell him a secret? But only if he promised not to tell.

He'd nodded, pressing himself into her side as he clutched the blanket closer to his chest and wiped the tears from his eyes with one fist, and promised he wouldn't tell.

"I was rescued by a mermaid," She'd whispered to him, leaning down and cupping her hands around his ear to make sure that the shadows wouldn't listen in, "I almost went under the water, but then someone carried me back to the surface."

And she'd gone one to explain that, at first, she'd thought it was their mother, but when she waited for her to come up above the water with her, nothing happened. She'd started to panic, thinking that her mother was now drowning after saving her, but then the arms that were holding her lowered her gently so that she was on her back, one hand releasing her and the other held under her to keep her at the surface. Don't be afraid, a voice

seemed to whisper, You'll be alright.

Entranced with his big sister's tale of how she'd survived for an entire hour out alone on the water, it hadn't taken John's eyes long to slowly fall shut, and for his mind to drift into the land of dreams, where he imagined that he and his sister flew beneath the waves like birds, their glittering fishes tails more beautiful than gems as they laughed and played until the sun rose to greet them with its golden, warm light through the window.

At first, being young and in love with the idea of magic and fantasy, he'd believed her, and anyone who dared look at her wrong or call her crazy was soon met with the furious anger of John Watson, protective younger brother. In school, she was called the Mermaidgirl, and though it had initially started out as an insult, Harry, standing fast in the face of the bullies, quickly took it on as a her own personal title, carried with pride, and after that, its use started to die down a bit.

But John still got detention when he punched a particularly mean girl a few years older than him that still insisted on using it as an insult.

Their parents sent her to therapists, and him too, when they found out that he believed her, but through it all, they weathered it, together. No matter how many names they were called names, or how many times they were the ones left out during games, (which, admittedly, didn't happen much, because they were both rather good at sports) they managed to keep each other afloat, managed to keep on smiling, as they strove to prove everyone wrong.

Their parents finally gave up on trying to get them to stop believing, and after Harry stared writing stories about mermaids so that people would at least listen, they even became supportive.

It was only after the girl Harry had secretly had a crush on for years spurned her in front of the entire high school, a look of disgust on her face, practically shouting that she could never love someone as crazy as the Mermaidgirl, that things started to go downhill.

Harry had always been sort of absent minded, sort of like Sherlock, only…different, but after that, it started to get worse. She started drinking.

And she never stopped.

Staring out the window of the cab, John sighed, and his breath fogged the window as raindrops continued to fall like tears over London

The weekend certainly hadn't gone as he'd planned it.

They were supposed to have gone to the movies and out to dinner to celebrate Harry's recent sobriety, but instead it had been spent sobering her up as her life was once more thrown off balance by the obsession she had with mermaids.

John was a soldier returned from war, and these days, he just couldn't be sure what was real or not. Maybe Harry really had been rescued by a mermaid all those years ago, or maybe she'd imagined it. But did that make it any less real? He'd suffered nightmares and flashbacks of battles that had ended long ago, but even though they weren't real, the pain and fear and helplessness of them was.

Sometimes, he wondered what his life would have been like if he'd never met Sherlock.

Staring out at the raindrops that fell from a sky clouded with grey, he knew that his life would have been filled with a lot less smiles.

He blinked rapidly as a lump formed in his throat and tears that seemed to have come from nowhere stung the back of his eyes. Wiping at his traitorous eyes with the back of his hand, he shook his head and laughed quietly to himself as he remembered the dream he'd had the night before.

That's why I'm upset, he thought to himself, turning his gaze away from his window and looking instead across the seat of the cab to look out the other side, That dream upset me. Nothing more.

He hadn't been able to sleep well at Harry's, his dreams had been plagued by a world of ice and darkness that he could just barely remember, and brought to mind, for some reason when he tried to remember more details of the dream, a rose whose leaves ran with golden ichor, and from whose petals seemed to drip endless tears.

Raising his gaze back to his window, and watching the raindrops patter against it, he lifted one idle hand and started to trace his finger along the glass, the thought that what he was doing was rude and that the cabbie would have to clean the window later only half crossing his mind.

All too soon, or not soon enough, he wasn't sure which, the cab pulled up infront of Baker Street. A feeling of loneliness overcoming him suddenly, he paid the cabbie, grabbed the small case he'd brought to Harry's, and slowly stepped out into the rain.

The droplets hitting his skin with an icy chill that reminded him far too vividly of the dream he could hardly even recall than he was comfortable with, he waved in thanks to the cab driver and shut the door, only sparing a second of a glance back to the window.

Already the words were fading, rain drops cutting into the letters and distorting them until the words themselves seemed to be crying, the cabbie pulled out onto the street again and started away, the words 'Bad Wolf' faded out of sight in less than a minute.

Suddenly realizing that he was standing out alone in the freezing rain without even an umbrella, he pulled his collar up and turned to enter 221B, glad of the momentary respite the overhang offered from the chilling rain.

The wave of heat that greeted him when he opened the door, as much as he appreciated it, did nothing to lessen the chill that seemed to have sunken into his bones, and he quickly shut the door behind him so that the cold from outside couldn't get in any more than it already had.

"It's just me, Mrs. H," He called, hearing the familiar sound of her favorite music coming from her flat behind the stairs. He looked down at his feet, where mud and water were slowly but surely pooling into the welcome mat, and back at the two flights of stairs he would have to take before he could get to the bathroom so he could take a nice, hot shower. This was going to be tricky.

"Oh, John deary, how was your sister's? Good, I hope?" Mrs. Hudson's cheerful voice called out from the area he identified as the kitchen just before she poked her head out from the doorway and sent him a warm, grandmotherly smile.

"Oh, fine, fine," He reassured, sending her a grateful smile of his own, before gripping the banister tightly so that he wouldn't slip in his wet shoes and starting up the stairs, "Is Sherlock in?" He asked, leaning over the banister so he could see Mrs. Hudson, suddenly all too aware of the silence from the flat above.

Usually, the sound of the violin, or things breaking, or, every once in a blue moon, the telly—which Sherlock spent most of his time yelling at, rather than actually watching whatever show was on—usually drifted down the stairs. But all was quiet as he stood there, one foot posed to take a step but held in mid-air.

Sherlock could be quiet, of course. He could sit for hours on end, just staring off into space, but that was…different, somehow. Thoughtful. This silence, this lack of noise was…empty.

John shivered, and imagined that the world around him had suddenly fallen into darkness.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said, sounding like she'd just remembered something, "He went out yesterday, said he was running a few errands and he wouldn't be back 'til late tonight. Sorry." She added, seeming to sense his disappointment. He could have sworn there was a devious twinkle in her eye as she said it, but she disappeared back into the kitchen before he could question it.

The smell of biscuits wafting up the stairs after him, he made his way slowly up the stairs that would lead him to the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes, the loneliness he'd felt outside returning full force when he saw that Sherlock's coat was missing. So he really was gone, then. Not that he had doubted Mrs. Hudson, really, he'd just hoped…

Shaking his head, he pulled off his jacket and hung it from the coat rack, then removed his shoes and socks as well, setting them next to the heating vent by the floor of the coat rack so they could dry as well. That done, he ascended the short flight of stairs to his room to grab his towel and other necessities, then quickly made his way to the bathroom.

Shedding his soaked clothes without delay and hanging his towel from the wall so it would be within easy reach when he was ready to get out, he stepped into the shower, drew the curtain shut, and twisted the knob until the water was pleasantly warm.

Shivering even beneath the warm spray, he turned the knob farther to the left, and considered for a moment the idea that he was sick. He hadn't felt well at all since waking up that morning from that strange dream, and he'd had a headache for almost half the day that wouldn't go away no matter how many painkillers he took.

As the water began to heat up more, though, the chill he'd been unable to escape started to fade, and, slowly, slowly, the pit of dread he'd felt in his stomach began to fade, and for as well the first time that day, he felt like his normal self again.

When he was done showering, he dried himself off, stored his things back in his room, and returned to the living room to check if his coat and shoes were dry yet. Seeing that they weren't, and realizing that there weren't many hours left of the day and that he was already showered, called downstairs to Mrs. Hudson that he was heading to bed early, and plodded up the stairs on tired feet to his bedroom again.

Not even bothering to change out of his clothes, so heavy was the sudden exhaustion weighing on him, he simply allowed himself to fall forward onto the bed, and before his head even hit the pillow, he was fast asleep.


He couldn't recall dreaming, this time, just the sweet, blissful peace of uninterrupted rest.

As far as he could tell, he'd been asleep for some hours before he began to shiver, half-waking as he groped with eyes still closed for his blanket so he could shield himself from the chill that seemed to have fallen over the room.

It was only a few minutes later when he felt the sickening sensation of falling as he leaned too far over the bed to see if the blanket had dropped to the floor that he finally snapped fully into the waking world.

Pushing himself safely into the middle of the bed, John rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, then stared around in confusion at the darkened room.

He could have sworn he'd left his blanket on the corner of the bed…

Glancing over at the alarm clock, he groaned when he saw that it was almost four in the morning. Throwing a hand over his eyes, he flopped back down onto the bed, curled into a ball to stay warm, and resolutely shut his eyes, determined to fall back asleep, with or without a blanket.

A few minutes passed where the only thing he did was internally grumble over his missing blanket.

Shivering again, he scowled when he realized that he was now wide awake, not to mention freezing, and it would probably be hours before he could fall back asleep. Sitting up, he threw his legs over the side of the bed, stuck his feet into his slippers, which he'd forgotten about earlier, and got to his feet.

He paused at the door of his room, though, confused for a moment when he heard the sound of Mrs. Hudson moving around in the flat below.

He looked over at the clock again, to make sure he wasn't imagining things.

He wasn't.

It was 3:40 in the morning.

And…

He turned his slowly to gaze back at the door.

Mrs. Hudson was cleaning their flat.

For one, terrible moment, the thought crossed his mind that maybe that wasn't Mrs. Hudson, and someone had broken into their house—but then he put his ear close to the floor, and caught the soft yet unmistakable sound of his landlady singing.

Sighing in relief, he pushed the door open and made his way down the stairs to the living room. Mrs. Hudson was humming cheerfully as she dashed about the place with an energy he'd rarely seen in her, dusting and tidying up as she practically danced across the living room.

He leaned against the wall, amused, and watched her for a few moments, just enjoying seeing her so happy.

Mid tune—he tried to identify the song, but couldn't think of the name, though he was sure he'd heard it somewhere before—she spotted him, and gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Oh, John," she squeaked, her voice half a whisper, "You scared me half to death! What are you doing up?" She set down her duster and moved closer to the stairs, her smile even brighter than it had been before.

He pointed a thumb back up toward his room, "I, uh, couldn't sleep," He said, "My room's cold—did Sherlock take my blanket, by any chance?" He asked suddenly, and the moment the words left his lips, he became convinced that they were true. He sighed. "He did take it, didn't he?"

Mrs. Hudson's mouth quirked, impossibly, into a wider smile, before her hands once more flew to her mouth, her eyes twinkling as she laughed softly, "Yes, yes, he did." She said, "He got back not half an hour ago."

"And was there any particular reason he had to steal my blanket instead of using his own?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. Probably not.

To his confusion, Mrs. Hudson's smile grew impossibly wider, and she turned away, quickly grabbing up her duster again and veritably dancing across the room to the bookshelf. "He's downstairs," she called over her shoulder without turning around, "You can ask him yourself."

He frowned in confusion. "Okay…"

Yawning, he shook his head, and decided that since he wouldn't be able to fall asleep without a blanket, there was no reason he couldn't use his own. Even as he thought it, anger and frustration began to burn deep in the back of his mind. He'd put up with a lot of Sherlock's annoying habits, but this was just downright rude, especially because Sherlock knew that this wasn't just any normal blanket.

This was the blanket his sister had sent him while he was in Afghanistan. This was the blanket that was his only connection to his old life amidst the violence and fear of fighting a war, his only tether to sanity in the nights when his flashbacks seemed like they would drive him insane.

Sherlock borrowed his laptop, his phone, his clothes, his money, his food-on the rare occasions that he actually got hungry enough to actually want to eat-and John had put up with it all. Sherlock was a good person, and usually, he didn't mean any harm, and even though he never apologized, if he saw that what he'd done had really upset John, he would make sure never to do it again, or at least to ask permission first, and so John let it slide.

But not this time.

Not when he had a headache, and was tired because his dreams had been filled with strange, half-forgotten visions of roses on beaches and feathers drifting down from a sky tinted purple with dawn, not after he'd learned that his sister was drinking yet again, not today, and most definitely not his blanket.

He didn't care if people would call it childish, his protectiveness of the blanket. They didn't know what it meant to him. He'd thought that Sherlock, at the very least, would have, but apparently he'd been wrong.

His mouth set in a thin line, he marched across the living room and down the stairs. He wanted to stomp on them to vent some of his anger, but the slippers he wore were thick, and the only sound that came from his feet connecting with the wood of the stairs was a soft, barely audible thump.

He should have left the slippers upstairs.

Not seeing Sherlock in the entryway to the building, he headed back towards Mrs. Hudson's flat, knowing that Sherlock had a tendency to help himself when it came to her fridge.

He wasn't in the kitchen, though, when John paused to look, and he was about to spin around to go back upstairs and just wait for Sherlock to come up, since he hadn't been back in Mrs. Hudson's flat all that often and he was a bit nervous wandering by himself, before he finally caught sight of his flatmate out of the corner of his eye in the living room.

John turned to look, determined to focus the blurry image into the clear shape of his friend so that he could give him a piece of his mind, because no one took his blanket, especially not without asking first, not even Sherl—

—John froze.

His eyes widened.

His stomach dropped to his feet.

His heart stopped working for a moment.

His blood ran cold with horror.

"Oh god, no," He whispered, stumbling backwards a step, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock, where he stood by the fireplace, holding—

Heads in the freezer he could deal with. Thumbs in the fridge he could deal with.

Even eyeballs in the microwave.

But this—

—this…

"Sherlock…" His voice came out as a croak.

Because Sherlock was holding a dead baby.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, one long finger held up to his lips, "Shhh." His eyes seemed to look right through John, in that way that they always did when Sherlock was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to even notice that John had gone out and had been away for hours.

John took another step backwards, his mind racing. "Sherlock, what—"

Sherlock turned to look at him again, but this time his eyes suddenly lit up when he saw John standing there. "John," He whispered, his mouth breaking into a huge smile, "Come here."

The child's feet were visible, and John stared in shock as the tiny little toes moved, and a soft cooing sound could be heard. Sherlock bent his face back over the baby, and John could have sword he heard him humming.

"What?" His voice was shaking as his heart rate slowly started to go back down to normal.

"Well don't you want to meet him?" The detective smiled over his shoulder, then crinkled his nose in a way that created an expression on his friend's face that John had never seen, and just as quickly as it had been suffused with happiness, a nervousness suddenly fell over him, a nervousness that John had seen once, when he'd first met the detective.

"M-meet who?" John's horror had washed away—and now he couldn't believe he'd actually thought that Sherlock would bring home a dead child, and what sort of friend thought things like that about their friends, anyway?—and now all that was left was confusion.

Had there been a murder? Had Sherlock accepted a case? His eyes widened. Was the child in danger, and had been brought here for protection? A rush of goosebumps ran down his spins, and he suddenly wished he had his gun.

But despite the sudden, distant fear that seemed to nag the edge of his senses, John smiled, and strode across the room to join his flatmate in front of the fireplace so that he could get a closer look at the child. Knowing the cases Sherlock took on, it would probably be a few days—at most—before he was allowed to go back to his family.

Speaking of which…

"Who are his parents?" He asked, smiling down at the baby, slightly mesmerized as memories of another child as small as this one washed over him.

For a few moments, he was standing back in the hospital, with Harry and Clara, and it felt like his heart had turned to stone as he stared down in silence that couldn't be broken at the tiny form that had once been so full of life.

"Their names were Nicholas and Zachary Heldschiff." Sherlock said softly.

Jolted back into reality, John had to resist the urge to jump out of his skin as his heart stuttered in his chest, weighed down by old pain that he knew would never leave him. He let the hand he'd been reaching out to the child drop back to his side.

Then he realized what Sherlock had said. And more importantly, how he had said it. "W-were?" He asked, staring up at his friend and hoping he'd heard wrong.

But the detective just nodded solemnly, and John felt his stomach drop.

Mrs. Hudson bustling into the room saved him from having to ask how they had been killed. His heart went out to the child, even as he found himself unable to look at it, for fear that the past would rise up out of his blackest nightmares to repeat itself in the waking world.

"Oh, there he is!" She cried, her voice an excited stage-whisper as she ran over as quickly as a woman her age could, and stopping in front of Sherlock, her hands fluttering about and seemingly unable to form words.

In silence, Sherlock carefully lifted the baby, and smiled at her.

Practically bursting with excitement, Mrs. Hudson gently took the child and cradled him in her arms as she lowered herself slowly onto the sofa, rocking him gently from side to side as she began to hum a soft tune, everything about her radiating

His hands now free, Sherlock seemed suddenly unable to remain still. His hands twitched at his sides, and his gaze shifted all over the room, looking everywhere, it seemed, but at John. Mrs. Hudson moved over to the sofa and sat down, cooing down at the baby and apparently not minding the fact that Sherlock looked like he was about to start tearing the room apart.

"So, what happened to his parents, then?" John asked, just for something to say as he struggled to shove away the memories that still wanted to recapture his mind.

"They were killed two weeks ago." Sherlock said, spinning away from the fireplace and perching himself on the arm of Mrs. Hudson's ancient blue recliner and steepling his fingers in front of his face like he always did when he was thinking about a problem, "The police report says it was some sort of wild animal attack."

John slowly lowered himself onto the couch Mrs. Hudson was on, careful to keep as far away from her and the baby as he could without being obvious about it. "But…you don't think so." He said, shooting a small glance toward the child, which was now fast asleep, thanks to Mrs. Hudson's care.

The barest traces of brown peach fuzz covered the top of its head, and though its eyes were closed now in sleep, he'd seen earlier that they were a light green that almost bordered on grey. He tried to ignore the way that how it lay there, so calmly in his landlady's arms, seemed so achingly familiar.

Sherlock shifted, and the movement drew John's eyes back to him. There was a frown on his face. "I'm...not sure." He said, his frown deepening.

John's eyebrows shot to his forehead. In all the time he'd known him, Sherlock had never, ever admitted to know knowing something.

As though sensing his doubt, Sherlock looked over, his eyes narrowed just a bit, "You must understand that I wasn't able to see the crime scene for myself." He said, his tone reminiscent of a defensive child who'd just been told they were lying, "And the two I managed to interview were most unhelpful. In fact I'm quite sure they were withholding information from me..." He trailed off for a moment, his gaze fixed to the wall.

After a moment, he shook his head, his eyes once more taking on that nervous look from before, "Anyways," He said, turning his head so that he could look at Mrs. Hudson and the child, "I want to assure you, John, that it is pure coincidence, and nothing more." His gaze darted back to meet John's, his hands once again twitching at his sides.

Confusion worming its way into his brain, John could only nod. "What is?" He asked, trying to figure out what had his flat-mate so worried.

"Well, I think it's absolutely lovely, dear," Mrs. Hudson interjected, her voice dreamy just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, causing both of them to turn to her, "I mean, coincidence or not, you must admit it is very romantic." A moment later she looked up at them both, her eyes wide, "Well, er, not that, well, you know what I mean." She said hastily, her words only causing John's confusion to deepen.

Romantic...?

"What do you mean, romantic?" He asked, looking back at his flatmate just in time for him to stand up and move in front of the fireplace again, his hands clasped behind his back, "Sherlock, what's she talking about?"

There came the sound of a deep breath being taken, and then, "His name is Hamish." Sherlock slowly turned around, his posture straight, almost defensive, as though he were worried that he was going to be yelled at, "Hamish Bobby-John Heldschiff..." for a moment, he trailed off, and to John, it seemed like the silence that held its place in that moment were a wire just waiting to snap, before he added, his voice low and just barely audible, "Holmes."

Another moment passed, in which John had trouble comprehending what he'd just heard, and what exactly it meant.

And then he realized.

His mouth fell open.

"You-" His mind struggled to find words, "But how-?"

Sherlock looked away again, "It's funny," He said, not looking at John, "How much quicker the adoption process goes when you have the Queen herself vouching for you." He cracked a small, grim smile, eyes still averted, "I suppose it also helped that the men I adopted him from were extremely protective, and conducted extensive research about me before they agreed. Apparently, even Americans are familiar with the story of how Sherlock Holmes defeated the evil James Moriarty."

Fighting to hold off the memories that wanted to overwhelm him at the reminder of what had happened not so long ago at St. Barts' hospital, it took John a few moments for his mind to catch up to everything his friend had just said. Specifically, one word.

"Hold on," he said, his mind still coming to terms with the fact that the child Sherlock had adopted-and that in itself was taking quite a bit of effort to believe-had his middle name, and all he could think of was himself saying that if he and Irene were looking for baby names, they could use Hamish, even though he'd been joking, but now here he was, with Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson, and a baby named Hamish, that Sherlock had just adopted, but his mind was more focused on the fact that— "You went to America?"

"Umm...yes," Sherlock said, frowning, "I thought I told you this yes...ter...day..." He trailed off slowly as realization dawned. "Oh, right." He looked embarrassed.

How in the world Sherlock thought he would be able to take care of a child—he had just adopted a child!-when he didn't even pay attention to when John wasn't even in the house, he had no idea.

He felt a headache starting to form behind his eyes. He half-hoped he was dreaming. This was crazy. Sherlock had adopted a child. A child from America. Sherlock had gone to America without even telling him and he'd adopted a child. Sherlock. With a child. Sherlock, the most brilliant man in the entire world, the same man who acted like a child himself most of the time with his naivety and incessant ability to get on people's nerves, was going to be a father to the child he had just adopted. Without even talking to John about it first. Not that he really needed to be consulted about adopting a child, of course, because you don't need a friend's permission to adopt a kid, but if you're living in the same house with them then you should at least talk to them about it first, to make sure that it would be okay, which it was, even though it was really sudden and sort of confusion and definitely crazy, but that wasn't the point, and—

This was going to end in disaster.

This was a disaster.

This was a complete disaster.

London would be gone within the week.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Mrs. Hudson look between them both, her brows furrowed slightly, before her eyes met his, and a small-he could have sworn devious-smile lit up her face. "Would you like hold him, John?" She asked, forestalling any further questions, "He's really quite the little angel."

John wanted to refuse, because his head hurt and heart felt heavy just thinking about holding a child in his arms again—the child that Sherlock had just adopted-but the look on his landlady's face-and, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock's as well-made the thought impossible to contemplate.

Unable to think of anything to say, he simply nodded in silence, and
went to sit next to her on the couch.

The moments that it took for her to hand him the child seemed to last an eternity as remembered grief and anguish rose up in the back of his mind.

And then the weight of the child was in his arms, grounding him in the present, and, at least for the moment, shoving the painful memories of another infant away. His arms cradling the little boy as gently as though he were made of glass, John stared down at the child's sleeping face, every beat of his heart pounding in his chest like a drum, the weight of Sherlock's gaze weighing against his skin, and his every nerve intensely aware of every breath the baby that shared his name took. Hanging on to each one like they were threads woven into his lifeline.

Surely, he knew?

He was Sherlock.

He had to have figured it out.

Right?

Unable to look at his landlady or his flatmate, or even the child's peacefully sleeping face, he closed his eyes as the tears he'd been struggling to hold back finally found their way to his eyes.

"I..." His voice betrayed him, cowering somewhere just out of reach behind the words he needed to utter, "I used to have a daughter, you know." He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Harry and Clara wanted a child, so I volunteered as a donor."

A sympathetic noise from Mrs. Hudson to his right, but no sense of surprise along with it. So she knew, then.

Silence from Sherlock.

A weight settled down next to him on the sofa at the same time that Mrs. Hudson stood. A hand gently set itself on his shoulder, almost hesitantly.

He opened his eyes to see Sherlock sitting next to him, his eyes supportive and sad at the same time.

Somehow, John found the strength to go on, as Sherlock lifted one free hand to trace along the sleeping child—Hamish, he would have to start calling him Hamish in his head, for godsake he couldn't keeping calling him the child-'s cheek.

"The pregnancy went well. We found out it was a girl, and we decided on the name Zoe. Everything—it was perfect..." He trailed off, biting his lip. "Then Clara's water broke at five months." He whispered, wondering, for a moment, if Sherlock even knew what that meant. The mind of the detective confounded him sometimes. A veritable genius when it came to some subjects, and worse than a kindergartner when it came to others. "Zoe, she...she was so small...and...and she didn't make it."

He closed his eyes again, letting the weight of Hamish register with his arms. It felt right. This weight. Close to his heart. He'd never been allowed to hold Zoe, in the week that she'd been alive and away from her mother. She was too small to be held. He held onto Hamish, and felt the weight that had laid in his heart ever since that day fade slightly, replaced with a warm happiness that he hadn't felt since he'd sat with his sister in their fort of blankets, telling stories of mermaids that saved little girls from drowning and sang to them lullabys to keep them calm.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed for the first time that Hamish was wrapped in his blanket. That was why Sherlock had stolen it. As much as he wanted to be angry, the sight of his flatmate's newly adopted son cuddling into the blanket that had kept him sane while the world fell apart around him in a storm of bullets and dust just seemed...right.

Like it was being given new meaning, new life.

A new purpose.

Tears gathered at the backs of his eyes again.

Sherlock—to his amazement—wrapped one of his long arms around his shoulders, and leaned closer to him. It was probably the closest thing to a hug his friend had ever given him.

"I know." He said softly, and somehow, the weight of those words was enough to loosen the hold of grief that had clutched his heart for years.


Finished on 11/19/13, 6:16PM