I do not own BBC Sherlock
.o0Sherlock0o.
Sherlock's icon appeared as my phone buzzed insistently in my pocket. Sherlock never called. I knew it was the little girl instantly.
"Zawn." Her accent paired with her still feeble speaking skills made for truly hilarious pronunciations. The child chirped into my ear as I answered the phone. I gave an apologetic smile to my patient.
"What is it, Scarlett?" I asked. Sherlock was cursing in the background and I scowled subconsciously.
"I'm hungry." The little french girl whined, something clattered and Sherlock groaned in agony. I heard Scarlett retreat to somewhere else in the flat as he raised his voice, most likely my room.
"I'm off work in an hour, I'll bring food then. Don't look in the fridge." I said seriously. Her hair brushed over the phone as she nodded.
"I love you!" She cried hurriedly, thinking I might hang up like Sherlock did as soon as he was finished saying his part. I paused a moment, smiling.
"I love you too, Scarlett." I said gently. She giggled and hung up. It had been only two days since their return. The house was in a whirlwind, but it was so good to have Sherlock back. Everyone had noticed the change in John. Some even had the audacity to suggest he had gotten a face lift.
"Sherlock, I told you to give Scarlett a bath!" I called as the ragged girl rushed down the stairs to meet me. Sighing I patted her ratted hair. I needed to look after her better, Sherlock was obviously not.
"How did you go two years with him?" I asked her, shouldering the two large bags of groceries. Most where foods that didn't have to go in the toxic fridge.
"We had a maid, her name was Claire." Scarlett answered, clinging to me. Since I allowed it, she took full advantage. It could be a bit much at times, but seeing how she never got the opportunity with Sherlock I accepted it.
"Left her in France?" I asked, and Scarlett nodded. She climbed onto the counter, although a small boned girl, she was adorably chubby. I wondered if she had inherited the same pudgy gene as Mycroft had. She was a skilled climber however, easily scouring the cabinet with minimal handholds.
"What's for dinner?" She asked, wearing one of Sherlock's informal tee shirts. It hung like a dress from her childish frame.
"Potatoes and roast beef." I said, picking plain meal. I had always been under the impression children liked simple foods. Scarlett smiled as I peeled back the foil from the precooked meat which I had picked up from a restaurant. I tossed the potatoes in oven.
"Daddy! Will you eat dinner with us?" Scarlett asked eagerly. Sherlock ignored her for a moment and I cleared my throat. Finally he answered.
"No." He said curtly and I glowered at his back.
"He will." I insisted, and Sherlock continued ignoring the both of us. A few minutes later it was ready. Cleaning off half the table, I set it for the three of us.
"Sherlock." I called, and he huffed before joining us. He picked at his food while Scarlett spoke hurriedly to him. He was surprisingly patient, giving her small acknowledgments.
"...and then I had a very puffy dress and you where my Prince and we danced for the whole night until midnight cause' midnight is magic, no? Then you gave me a shoe and I turned into a pumpkin and mommy said I was still very cute because I was a red pumpkin which is her favorite color, no?" Scarlett rushed. I froze at the word mother. Of course Scarlett had a mother, I was a Doctor for God's sake I knew that. The thought still made me break out in a sweat and my hands clench around the silverware. Sherlock had yet to inform me of the specifics of his trip, and I'd been so excited I hadn't pushed.
"What is your mothers name, Scarlett?" I asked, and Sherlock's head snapped up to the question. His gaze was cold and unblinking, I avoided it. He stared me down, and Scarlett seemed enthusiastic about the answer.
"Ma Mere? She is-"
"Scarlett, you said that in your dream I had given you a shoe. Which kind?" Sherlock asked suddenly, cutting her off. I glared at him and he met my gaze evenly.
"One I could look through!" She said.
"A glass slipper? The composition of which is about 75% silica, plus Na2O, CaO, and several minor additives. Hardly a suitable choice for a child so young. If it broke, you could get cut and bleed to death. I'd be much more likely to purchase you something more durable. A rubber soled shoe would be the obvious choice, but then again you would most likely appreciate something similar to your fantasy. I suspect plastic would suffice." Sherlock said, while Scarlett hung on his every word, absorbing it like a sponge.
"Glass is 75% silica, Na20, CaO and seven additives?" She repeated, Sherlock offered her a small pleased smile which she happily returned.
"Several, which suggests an unspecified but general proximity to the number." He corrected and she nodded obediently, repeating it quietly to herself. Oh god, another genius. I rubbed my temples and finished my meal while the two discussed the additives found in glass.
We decided it would be a good idea to bath Scarlett after dinner. She'd squealed, splashing water all over the bathroom. I'd made the horrible mistake of giving her bubbles, which turned bath time into play time. One both Sherlock and I participated in.
"I am not doing this, you clean her up." Sherlock snapped as he blew the puff of bubbles which had been tossed at his curls by the flushed child. Her skin was as pale as Sherlocks, she truly took after him.
"She is your daughter! You're lucky I'm helping you." I said, trying to roll up my sleeves again. I don't know why I was, I was soaked through from her flailing.
"Scarlett, stop squirming!" Sherlock scowled, getting a face full of soapy water. Exasperated I gave in, helping him.
"Here you go." I said reaching down to pick up the barbie doll. She eagerly gripped it, dunking it in and out of the water.
"Oh no! She is having a pulmonary edema! Call an ambulance!" Scarlett wailed, her eyes flicking up to her fathers for approval. I gasped in horror, was this child honestly diagnosis her drowning barbie?
"Scarlett!" Sherlock scolded, aghast. Thank God, I'd thought that he would say something silly. All doubt I had in his parenting skills made me feel suddenly guilty, he was doing a fairly good job-
"She is obviously suffering from asphyxiation caused by submersion in a liquid." He said mildly, and she actually looked embarrassed.
"Do you realize that you've just made a four year old, embarrassed because she didn't know how to diagnosis her drowning barbie!" I said in disbelief. Sherlock gave her a small inquisitive look.
"Are you four, Scarlett? I was under the impression you where still three." Sherlock said, rinsing the suds from her hair. The now deep chestnut brown curls where shiny and lustrous. She had the most beautiful, but strange colored hair I'd ever seen. Depending on the light, it could be auburn, chestnut, or a deep red.
"I'm four, Daddy." She said, spluttering as he dumped a cup full of water over her face. She squawked before wailing, the soap having gotten in her eyes. I plucked her from the bath, as she cried.
"Shh, shh. It's okay." I said, resting her cheek against the sink as I used my hand to drizzle cool water over her burning eyes. Sherlock flashed her a concerned look.
"Scarlett, I'm very sorry." Sherlock said tensely, as her cries died down to whimpers. Her red eyes widened and her crying renewed ten fold.
"Daddy-Daddy, it's okay!" She said, mimicking my earlier statement. I wrapped her in a towel before handing her to Sherlock who held her carefully. She sobbed against his neck.
"It's okay, Daddy. Don't apologize!" She blubbered, Sherlock petted her wet hair, a tiny loving smile on his face.
We sat in the living room, Scarlett was wearing one of my knit jumpers. Sherlock's shirts where much too long for her, dragging on the floor. She was seated behind Sherlock's chair, pulling off her barbie's head and arms then preforming an 'emergency surgery' by popping them back into the torso. I sat in my chair, reading a book, while Sherlock scanned some files Lestrade had sent to him. A lot of cases had been left unsolved since Sherlock's time away.
"Scarlett, go up to John's room." He dismissed, not even looking at her. I prepared to protest, but she had already gathered her doll, and the stethoscope I had brought from the office for her. She treasured it much more than the naked barbie that she had covered in band aids.
"Why did you do that?" I demanded, feeling a flash of anger. Sherlock glanced at me from his chair.
"You're curious aren't you? Didn't you want to know what happened, how I came about raising my child." Sherlock asked. A knowing smile was on his face that I despised and loved all at the same time.
"Tell me." I gave in with a sigh, he settled the files on the table and turned to me. He crossed his long legs elegantly and steepled his slender fingers.
"Jim Moriarty threatened to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't ... kill myself. So naturally the odds weren't in my favor. Once I preformed the allusion, I had hide out for a couple of months before coming back to you." Sherlock said, his voice was a tad deeper. When he said the last sentence his eyes bored into mine.
"You must understand, John, how difficult it was for me. I know you must think me selfish, and cruel for what I did to you. But I did it to save you're life, I-I couldn't bear the thought of anyone hurting you." Sherlock said, running a ragged hand through his hair. He cleared his throat, obviously becoming more emotional than he had intended. I made sure to cherish the words, saving them in my mind to replay on repeat later.
"I went to France, Mycroft had insured a safe haven for me there. The structure's where similar enough London that I could bear it for a time. I-I was in a cafe when I saw Irene," His voice drifted off, soft and completely unlike Sherlock. Irene ... Not 'the woman', but Irene. It was so cruelly intimate.
"She had a child with her. I'm not a fool, I knew the second I saw Scarlett hat she was mine. My eyes, lips, facial structure. But the rest, the rest was all Irene. The eyebrows, the chin, the slim nose. I knew in that second that I was a father, and my world changed." Sherlock admitted, his hands trembling slightly beneath his lips. He glanced up to me, reading my reactions with that cutting glacier like stare.
"I tracked her down and confronted her when Scarlett was with a Nanny. She admitted to ... 'having a go' the night I saved her from execution. I hardly remember it, just that I had taken the offered glass of champagne which she had drugged. The ending result, as you know, was her pregnancy." Sherlock disclosed, the tips of his middle fingers were rubbing across his bottom lip as he spoke, his eyes dazed. I watched him with captivated fascination. I loved when he spoke to me in long monologues like this, it was one of the rare chances I had to stare at him without being interrupted by his biting remarks.
"She planned it, she wanted you to impregnate her." I said without thinking. Sherlock looked stunned a moment, before he slide into an easy smile.
"When I accused her of the same thing, she said, 'If I can't have those cheekbones, then my child will.'. I of course was appalled, but she admitted her radical actions where in part due to her 'feelings' for me." Sherlock maliciously said, his eyes narrowing. The room went silent and he studied me as I sat there.
"Where is she?" I asked lightly. Sherlock's gaze hardened just the slightest, and he smirked.
"Dead." He confirmed my thoughts and I looked away.
"I'm not doing this." Sherlock spat, his arms crossed over his chest in finality. Scarlett was holding onto the end of his blazer carefully, ready to move at a moment's notice away from her father's brisk and sudden strides.
"You are, I can't do all the shopping." I said, handing him a list and his credit card. He ignored it and Scarlett reached up, taking it for him. She was wearing tiny black shorts, which were meant to be worn beneath her pretty dresses. I'd swept her hair into a neat but plain ponytail. She had taken a likening to my bedtime shirts, currently she was wearing a gray tee which hung from her tiny shoulders. She seemed misplaced standing next to her father in a suit.
"Papa, will you stay?" She asked. 'Papa' was her way of showing I was now part of her family. Her second father she introduced me as, much to my embarrassment. I thought Lestrade would burst from laughing so hard when she said this. Not that I wasn't flattered, but people tended to get the wrong idea when a little girl had two bachelor fathers.
"I will, but just to keep watch." I said, and her long wavy ponytail bounced along with her. I had bought her children's trainer, the shoes where sporty and comfortable. She loved them, and abandoned the fancy buckle leather shoes that Mycroft had sent her. Recently he must have seen her rather distressful taste in fashion on a CCTV since she had been getting a lot of fashion designer dresses in the mail.
"Let's get this over with." Sherlock hissed, hurrying down the aisle. Scarlett followed, having to jog to keep up. She was looking at the list.
"Lait-I mean milk." She called up to her father's massive form. He glanced down at her, plucking it from the shelf as he passed.
"Sherlock, you didn't even check the percentage." I said, annoyed. He halted, looking up at me in confusion.
"The what?" He scowled, looking at the carton. He focused his gaze and snorted, tossing it on top of a pile of meat. I cursed at him under my breath and placed it back on the shelf.
"We are not getting fat free." He said, picking up whole milk. I gaped.
"Sherlock, do you know how much fat is in that? We get fat free." I said, pulling the carton from his hands.
"Papa, fat free is icky." Scarlett popped in.
"Ah, words of a future philosopher. I agree, we will not be purchasing any 'icky' milk. You are a woman of refined taste, my dear." Sherlock patted her head, rewarding her for siding with him. I scowled and she threw me a hesitant glance.
"Daddy, Papa likes the 'icky' one though." She pointed out, standing between us. He shot be a brief glance.
"Judging by his taste in women, I'd say it's best not to trust any decisions he may find plausible." Sherlock said to her, which she covered her mouth to hide her giggle. I ripped the carton from his hand, embarrassed.
"We're getting, fat free!" I shouted, and he glared at me furiously.
"Whole." He said, tugging it off the rack once again.
"Fat free!
"Whole!"
"Fat free!"
"Whole! The nutrients found in a cow's milk provide proper-"
"Papa. Daddy. Can we get this one?" She asked, holding up a half and half. Her eyes where wide and scared from our shouting, we both agreed instantly.
"Fine." We echoed at the same time.