John sat by himself in front of the fireplace. He was waiting for James to return home. Sadly, he knew where his son was; he could never ask for his own blood to stay away from that place. But as he waited longer and longer his mind began to go back. Flashback: 24 years ago.
"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock," said John Watson quietly.
"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock Holmes spat from the window.
"I mean, I have to retire. No more crimes and no more detective work."
"Why? What could be so important that it ends our partnership? Is it that woman?"
"That woman is my wife, Sherlock!"
Sherlock stormed bitterly across the room. He stopped in the kitchen with both his hands firmly on the wooden table. "Why now, John?"
John got up from his chair and walked slowly into the small kitchen. "I'm actually surprised that you can't tell."
Sherlock looked up at John, his face hot. His eyes scanned the short man up and down. In frustration he gave up and looked away.
"I've bought a house outside of town; Mary and I are moving in less than a month," said John.
"Tell me," Sherlock hissed. "Why are you leaving me? I mean, here. Why are you leaving the flat?"
"Sherlock," John sighed.
"I need your help, John. I always have."
"It's not like we are never going to see each other again!" protested John.
Sherlock looked away from his friend.
"Alright, I'll tell you. This job is dangerous and I don't want Mary getting hurt."
"The two of you have been married for two years now, why the sudden attachment?" asked Sherlock, his temper was starting to rise again.
John made Sherlock look him in the eye. "Sherlock, Mary and I are having a baby."
It had been four years since John had last seen Sherlock or had even walked past Baker Street. But he thought about it every day. Every morning, John wanted to pick up his phone and dial his number; invite him for coffee or an outing. Then he would smile at the thought of Sherlock's definition of an outing. He could never bring himself to do it.
"Daddy?" snapped John back into reality. His son tugged on his jacket sleeve. He was sitting in the den, in his favorite chair. John looked down at his boy and smiled; he rubbed a hand through James' messy hair.
"What wrong, James?" he asked. John picked him up and sat him in his lap. "It's getting late, you should be in bed."
"I had a nightmare," James answered in his young, shy voice. He cradled his favorite stuffed blue dragon in his arms; he couldn't sleep without it.
"Now we can't have that now, can we? What happened in this nightmare?"
"A mean man broke into our house."
"That was rude of him wasn't it? Did he do anything to you?"
"He took William," said James, pointing at the English bulldog puppy sleeping on John's slippers in front of the warm fireplace. John smiled at his son's imagination; he hugged him tightly.
"I don't think anyone wants to take that dumb dog." James giggled. Mary walked in from another room.
"What's so funny?" she smiled. Suddenly, the phone rang. John looked up at Mary then at the clock. Who would be calling so late?
Mary picked up James from his father's lap as John answered the phone. "Hello?"
"I understand, John," came a quiet deep voice from the other end.
"Sherlock?" asked John in shock. Mary's eyes widened, she quickly carried James back upstairs to his bedroom.
"I understand," said Sherlock again, this time almost in a whisper.
"Sherlock, is something wrong? Where are you?" Millions of questions raced through John's head at the sound of his old friend's voice but these were the most instinctive.
"I would rather show you, John. Can you meet me?"
"Of course, give me an address," said John beginning to get a pen from the side table.
"St. Bart's; please get here quickly." Sherlock hung up the phone.
"John, dear, what's wrong?" said Mary reentering the den. John got up and looked her in the face. He kissed Mary on the lips softly and left out the front door without another word.
He ran into the city; all the way to St. Bart's. John's heart was beating faster than it had in years. He finally made to the front doors of the hospital when he saw someone very familiar in the lobby.
"Mrs. Hudson?" John called to a woman. Mrs. Hudson was sitting in a chair crying but she managed to smile at the sight of John's face.
"Dr. Watson, it's been too long," said sobbed.
"Mrs. Hudson, what's wrong? Has something happened to Sherlock?" John's voice cracked. It hurt him to think of Sherlock lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life. But she couldn't answer him, she just nodded. John turned to the front desk. "Ma'am, I'm looking for Holmes."
The young woman looked up at John slowly and began to type on her computer. "Room 134; down the hallway to the right." John ran in the direction that was pointed out. He dodged patients and doctors through the slick, clean corridors. Finally, he came to a closed-door that read: 134. John took deep breaths trying to stay positive. He has to be alright, he thought. This is Sherlock Holmes, damn it. His hand met with the door knob and he turned it.
"Sherlock?" he called.
"Shhhhh," responded Holmes. John was shocked to find that the hospital bed was empty and made; his tall friend stood in front of an open window. A light, warm breeze floated in from outside, waving the white curtains.
"Sherlock, what's going on here?" John whispered.
"I understand," was all that was said.
"Understand what?"
"Why you left, John. As of tonight, Sherlock Holmes is retired."
"What?" John was confused and, honestly, a bit scared. "Why?"
Sherlock turned from the window and John nearly collapsed. In his arms was a sleeping newborn baby, wrapped in a soft pink blanket.
"John, I would like you to meet Scarlett." Tears reflected off Sherlock's cheek bones; he was able to give a half-smile. "My daughter."
Watson had to sit down in the chair in the corner of the room. Sherlock gently sat on the bed, keeping the child close to his body as he tucked the knitted blanket a bit tighter. John's heart pounded even harder than when he had ran across the city. He began to massage his temples.
"Where's the mother?" asked John minutes later.
"Gone; she said she doesn't want anything to do with me or Scarlett."
John looked at Sherlock. A sudden realization struck him. "Oh my, Sherlock, you managed to sleep with Irene Adler? It was her wasn't it?"
Sherlock said nothing. "I'm sorry for everything I said, John."
"I forgave you a long time ago, Sherlock," smiled John. He got up and walked over to his friend. "She really is beautiful. Thank God, she doesn't look like you." The two laughed.
"I wanted to ask you something; will you be Scarlett's godfather?" John was taken a back.
"Of course, I will."
"What is it like being a father, John? Can I really do this?" asked Sherlock. His voice was shaky. John looked at him, this was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock scared, and he wasn't just scared, he was absolutely terrified.
"Well, think about it this way; take that feeling you get every time you solve a crime. Think about how you feel when you deduce something and when you know that you saved someone's life. Now, take that feeling and multiply it by a hundred. That's what it feels like, Sherlock. Each time you watch her carry out something and just when you look down at her, that's the feeling that you get. When you look into Scarlett's eyes you will feel like you can do anything, and with her, you actually can. Nothing is and never will be the same a when you look at this child; she's yours, only yours, and nobody can ever take that away from you."
"I don't think I can handle all that."
John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Don't worry; I know you can."