A Gift and A Curse
Chapter 5
'I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant and it's your baby.'
For the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes had no idea what to think. He walked or to put it more accurately stumbled down an alleyway, his head still reeling with what Jane had said.
His mind replayed that scene in vivid detail, over and over each time he discovered something more. His head pounded viciously, as it practically screamed the deductions at him.
(Jane: t-shirt not washed in three days, jeans recently washed this morning, hair relatively clean, roots need dying, probably realise this in the next couple of days, shaking, traces of tears, shoulder tense – wound paining her, legs muscle twitching involuntarily – likely chance of limp returning. Conclusion: severe metal distress -)
It was then he tripped over the lid of a bin. His hands connected with the floor to minimise the fall but that didn't stop his knees hitting the concrete with an agonising crunch.
He swore colourfully under his breath, before climbing back to his feet. He wiped specs of gravel off his hand and off the damp patches where his knees had connected with the ground.
Sherlock continued, albeit unsteadily down the alleyway until he emerged from the alley and right on the South Bank of the Thames. He walked up to the rails and clung onto them, staring down at the murky water below.
The cold breeze hit his face; it felt as if the wind was running its icy fingers through his hair, chilling him to the very core. His body was shaking even though he wore the Belstaff coat.
Oh dear God, how could this happen? How could he father a child? Well, he knew how, of course he did. During his adolescence he'd read science books and once, just once, looked through a…gentleman's magazine, which had been unpleasant to say the least, especially when Mycroft caught him with it.
It was in University when he finally brought himself to have intercourse. It was with a girl whose name he'd long since deleted. The memory was hazy and vague due to the fact that alcohol had played a large role in the entertainment of the night. But, he had to admit it wasn't a complete waste of an evening, some of it had been quite enjoyable.
But he'd been just as careful then as he was now but Sherlock knew there was always that 1%, the margin of error, the weak link in the chain. Now, apparently, that had happened and, he had no idea what to think. Or feel. Or do.
Then his pocket buzzed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the message. Unsurprisingly it was from Mycroft.
Why has Jane requested a meeting with me?
She will be arriving shortly.
I suggest you hurry with your answer.
MH
Sherlock raised his eyebrow, of all the things he expected Jane to do, going to Mycroft wasn't one of them. Sherlock didn't brother replying to his brother, he knew that if he did only more questions would follow.
It was only a matter of time before he would receive more messages (and ignore those too) and eventually Mycroft would pick him up on cameras and trace his movements until he would be intercepted by a car and MI6.
The only thing he could really do now was wait. Wait for Mycroft to fix this, to make it all go away like he'd done since childhood.
Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and closed his eyes. There was very little chance that he'd get any peace but he had two choices to calm his mind down; the first was concentrating on his sensations, the second was cocaine.
For the first time in his adult life he could honestly say that he couldn't stomach cocaine.
He tried to concentrate, he genuinely did but there was something building inside him, inside his chest that kept his techniques from working. It burned – it actually hurt but the bizarre thing was it wasn't wholly unpleasant just…new.
He needed to talk to someone, or to put it more accurately, he needed to question them, to collect information and then compare it to his own. Hopefully, he would finally get some answers.
Compare his…feelings…to that of someone normal. And he knew the exact man to experiment on. He pulled his phone out of his pocket just as it buzzed again.
Jane is pregnant.
She is also extremely distressed.
She will no doubt make drastic decisions unless you talk to her.
MH
Sherlock ignored the message and typed a new message quickly.
Lestrade,
Meet me in Angelo Costello's restaurant,
It's just on the edge of Northumberland Street.
It's urgent.
SH
Sherlock spun on his heel and walked. Along with many other things along with keys, he'd forgotten to bring money so a cab was out of question. He didn't bother putting his phone back in his pocket mainly because of the fact that Lestrade would ring him in…
5…
4…
3…
2…
1…
His phone vibrated angrily and Sherlock answered in one fluid movement.
"Lestrade, good evening. I trust I'm not disturbing? No, good."
(-"Sherlock what's –")
"Nothing is wrong, Lestrade. Not physically at least. I need…I need a favour from you."
(-"What? Why? What kind of favour are you talking about?")
"I'll explain everything when you meet me."
(-"Is it about a case?")
"No!" Sherlock said exasperated by Lestrade's persistent nagging. "I just need to talk to you…as a friend."
(-"Uh…right, okay. Angelo's you say? Right…didn't I arrest him?")
"Yes, triple homicide in Brixton. Debora Carlson framed him, remember?"
(-"Oh yeah, I remember now. Okay, well I'll see you there. I'm just finishing some business in the station I'll be about twenty minutes is that alright?")
"Yes, I'll meet you there shortly."
(-"Sherlock, before I go I just wanted to ask, is everything alright with Jane? She seemed a bit –")
Sherlock ended the conversation before Lestrade could finish. He pulled the battery out of the back of his phone and chucked it into the river bellow.
No interruptions, not tonight.