AN: so this is a pretty random little fic I found on my computer today, intended to be family/romance story. Someday. I think. _
Anyhoo, it's not a crossover, even if it does sound like it. I would appreciate it forever if you could spare the time to give me any feedback, would be nice to know how I'm doing ^^ Doesn't have to be anything massive.
Set before Reichenbach, so possible spoilers only for series one and the first two episodes of series two. Not saying there is any, but you have been warned.
Disclaimer: as far as I know, I own nothing.
When someone knocked on the door for the first time, Sherlock had been sitting very still for hours, having a staring competition with the skull. Needless to say that it had been one of the dullest days in weeks, with no cases and no Lestrade (he was on a holiday, for some bizarre reason). John had fallen asleep in the chair opposite to him about four hours and six minutes ago, the latest experiment including acid and a human liver wasn't ready yet, and he had got bored of throwing knives at the wall. Sherlock really loathed Sundays, there was no mail, no crime, nothing! But he wasn't going to let the skull win after all this time, so he decided against answering the door. If it was important they would knock again, and then John could get it.
The someone at the door became impatient, to the extent where the pounding woke the slumbering doctor. He refused to open his eyes just because his lazy-arse flatmate couldn't bother to rise himself.
"S'rlock go get that," John muttered in a quite annoyed tone. "It's your client anyway."
"Hush! If I move, the skull wins and I would never hear the end of it. And we can't let that happen, right John?"
The shorter man groaned and curled up to a tight ball, a clear sign that he wasn't going to give in no matter what. "Fuck you."
"As if," mumbled Sherlock to himself with a sigh as he stood up and strode to the door while stretching his jammed arms. Now he would have to avoid talking to the skull for some time. Marvellous.
John heard the door open, but two seconds later Sherlock yelped as if scared and slammed the door shut with incredible force.
"JOHN!"
"Jesus Christ mate, what happened?"
"There's a—and if we let it in—"
"A WHAT, tell me!" John was now reaching for his gun, which was nowhere in sight. Damn, where did he leave it? The detective wasn't exactly helping, walking in nervous circles while tugging his hair.
"A child," he declared like they were discussing his death sentence.
"—I'm sorry, what?"
Sherlock's face twisted in disgust. "A toddler."
"So what you're saying, is that you slammed a door to a child's face, started to panic and left the poor thing there?"
"Yes, pretty much so. But you see, if we take it in, it won't—no wait John, don't you dare open that door!"
It was too late. John was already at the door. It turned out that Sherlock was absolutely right—there stood a little girl at their doorstep. Her appearance was a bit ragged; messy and long jet black hair dripping quite lifelessly on her shoulders, a grey dress with countless smudges and tears, mismatched socks, and shoes that had seen better days. She also had a white apron for whatever reason, or at least John suspected that it had been white. Who even makes a girl wear one these days? The child was also way too thin and pale for it to be healthy, butthe most unsettling thing about her was definitely her face. She must have been, what, five? But her glare felt like a physical blow for John. The girl's mouth was a tense line, her brow furrowed tight and the bright, green eyes seemed to scream bloody murder. He also noticed that she was trembling slightly, and had clenched her hands in to fists.
John thought that he ought to say something. "Well, hello sweetie, are you all alone?"
The girl didn't response in any way, so he kept going. "Would you like to come in?"
It took a few seconds, but finally she stepped inside without as much as a word. Sherlock buried his face in his hands in frustration and opened the window. He poked his head out and yelled to the street. "MYCROFT, get your overweight arse here right now!" He then banged the window shut (wouldn't be the first time he'd smash the glass), and proceeded to sulk on the sofa. John saw a flicker of interest in the child's gaze, but even he didn't have the faintest idea of what Sherlock was doing so maybe it was understandable. Grown men didn't usually roar out of windows. But now was not the time to question his intentions, the girl needed the attention more than that six-foot drama queen.
He walked in front of her, and sat cross-legged to the ground. "Okay then, I didn't introduce myself yet. My name is John, what's your name? "
Her expression wasn't quite so harsh anymore, more like curious, but she didn't say anything.
"And in case you were wondering," John continued, "the man sulking on the sofa is Sherlock."
"I do NOT sulk!", came the response muffled on the pillows. John chuckled at this, and to his surprise, she laughed a little too. "He's being a bit funny, but he's harmless. Just so you know", said the doctor still smiling.
Hesitantly the child opened her mouth. "His name is funny."
John ignored the sharp 'Oi' from the couch. "Yep, and guess what? He has a brother named Mycroft." They both giggled a bit. She was actually kinda cute when she smiled.
"Your name is not funny."
"Well no, but it's a bit boring. There are a lot of Johns out there."
She looked thoughtful. "I like it."
"Oh, thank you."
Mycroft chose that moment to appear with his assistant in tow. Sherlock jumped up and glared at the girl who was now looking once again confused and uncomfortable. The Holmes brothers clearly wanted her out so they could talk more freely, but didn't have the faintest idea how. In a different situation John might have laughed, but he had to do something (clearly nobody else would). Unlike them, he actually didn't despise children, and she had smiled to him just a second ago. Too bad that Mycroft wasn't any less creepy.
"That is Sherlock's brother Mycroft", John announced and the girl let out a tiny laugh (Mycroft just frowned slightly at this oddity), "and his assistant but I don't really know what they're doing here."
Mycroft cleared his throat. "If my assistant could take young… sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
"Would you like to tell me your name now?", John asked as he turned to face her.
"I don't…" She paused to think for a moment. "Can you call me Alice, like Alice in Wonderland?"
"Is that your real name?"
"…No." She gave him the puppy-eyes. Anthea-whatever-her-name-was snorted to herself, looking amused. "Please John?" He felt his heart melt, as sure as he heard Sherlock scoffing in the background. Emotions.
"Sure, if you want that. At least now I won't have to make up a name for you. Can you go upstairs to my bedroom for a while with her?" Mycroft's nameless assistant came next to her and offered her hand. "Just for a while, we won't take long. Okay?"
'Alice' considered this for a tic before nodding and grabbing the offered hand. When they rose up the steps, John could hear her ask for the woman's name.
"Umm… let's say Naomi." Honestly, did she change it daily or what?
"That's not your name, is it?", Alice asked with mild curiosity.
"Nope. We have that in common."
Well, they would be fine for a moment. John turned to face Sherlock, and tried to ignore the fierce scowl he was receiving. Mycroft was apparently bored, fiddling with his umbrella and glancing at his watch. They heard the bedroom door close. The silence became suddenly disturbing, so John decided to break it.
"What?"
"Why on earth," Sherlock said, "did you think it was a good idea to invite it in?"
"How was I supposed to react then? You can't just leave little girls alone on your doorstep!"
The detective had his you're-an-imbecile-look on again. "It was doing just fine before you opened the door!"
"Not 'it', she! She's a human being called Alice, Sherlock! I'm not going to start teaching you about humanity again."
"Oh, right, now that we're stuck with it we might as well name it then, lovely!"
"It wouldn't hurt you to have some respect towards—stuck? What do you mean stuck?"
Sherlock drew a shaky breath and turned to the window. The doctor felt terribly angry and out of his depth.
"Sherlock Holmes, you tell me RIGHT NOW what's going on or I'll… tell Anderson that you don't know who the prime minister is!" There, that should be bad enough.
After a while he started talking, because of his threat or something else, John didn't know. "I met it's—her mother on a case some two years ago, I recognised her because she looks very much like the woman." John didn't want to interrupt, but questions were circling around his head very fast. Sherlock, of course, noted that. "Spare me from stupid questions, would you? When I met the mother she told me that she had a small child, and no, I don't have a clue of the father. Anyway, she was a part of one major crime organisation, and had the information that I needed to crack the case. But she wouldn't accept any payment, just said that I 'owned her one'. At the time I didn't have a choice, so my debt has remained to this day. When the thing—girl—appeared, it wasn't a hard leap to figure out that this was my favour. Of what I've heard, her organisation is sinking and they're not coping very well, even you can see that for the state of the child. My guess is that she wants me to watch over her until the worst is over. But since I never guess, this most certainly is the situation."
John suddenly realised he was gaping like a fish. "Eh… all right," he said and shook his head a little. "That's tough luck then. What are you going to do about it?"
"That's why I summoned him, isn't that right brother-o-mine? Didn't even have to get my phone from the kitchen, I knew you'd be watching somewhere close enough to hear me."
Mycroft had been completely forgotten for a few minutes, but at least John now knew why he came in the first place. Although he didn't look like he was going to be much help to Sherlock, not with that fake smile.
"You're honour-bound to look after this girl, so I cannot help you. It's not my job to clean after you, nor am I your nanny. You will live through this, and right now, it's not my problem."
His tone declared that this conversation was over, but that didn't slow Sherlock's whining one bit. "But I don't want children! You know me; this is not the place for a toddler. Maybe Mrs Hudson would have her…?"
"The poor woman does enough for you as it is," interrupted John.
"You could be more helpful, as you can deal with children."
"Alice's your responsibility!"
"No, OURS. I will not deal with it on my own!"
"She, Sherlock, she!"
They glared daggers at each other silently, willing the other to back down first. Mycroft took this as his cue to leave. He walked to the door where 'Naomi' was already waiting eyes glued to the blackberry.
"As much entertaining as watching you bicker like an old couple has been, I have other places to attend to. Do try to cope, Sherlock. Good day Dr Watson." Then he was out.
Sherlock flung himself on the sofa, and started the second sulk of the day. John murmured something about him being childish before going to search Alice.
He found the girl leaning on the headboard of his bed, hugging her knees to her chest. The mop of black hair covered her face almost completely, but judging from the part that he could see, she had heard the yelled argument. John felt a bang of guilt, they really should have been more careful. He solemnly sat down next to her, as if not to scare her away.
"Alice, is everything all right?", he asked in a soft tone. She wasn't crying, but scared as hell.
"I'm sorry I yelled, I shouldn't have. It had nothing to do with you, that was about Sherlock. Can you forgive me?"
Alice nodded courtly. The doctor pushed her locks out of her face. "I don't like it when people shout. You sounded so angry," came the response.
"Won't happen again, I promise. You okay?" She nodded again and pressed her face in John's fluffy jumper. He put his arms around her, and lifted the curled up girl fully in his embrace. Must have been an awful day for her, and god knows what's going to happen to her mother.
A while later Alice's fists, which were clenching the jumper had relaxed a bit, and she had fallen asleep. John carefully lifted his face from her hair. She really did need a haircut...
At the door stood Sherlock, like forgotten there. The harsh look was gone, replaced by thoughtful and sad. When he saw John watching, he walked over and gently took Alice from him, carrying her to the bed. Once the girl was tucked in, they left in silence and closed the door.
"We'll call a truce, yes?"
"Agreed. Should I make dinner?"
"Starving."