A/N Sorry this took a long time, but I left it a while and realised I didn't know where my original ideas were going to take me. I do however know where this will probably go from here; it'll be no more than one or two chapters more though. Thank you to everybody that's reviewed so far, you're all far too kind!
Disclaimer: Sadly BBC Sherlock is not mine.
He's not a father. He's not paternal. He's selfish, narcissistic, self-absorbed and has a flourishing life as a Detective that leads no room for a baby. The boy back at Baker Street may share the same biological genes as he, but it did not make Sherlock Holmes a father. A biological sperm donor maybe, but nothing more.
It was at times like this that Sherlock needed John the most. John always made sense of emotions and sentiment; but it was a little after 1am and even Sherlock was aware that John and Mary shouldn't be disturbed on their wedding night. Anyway, as much as Sherlock needed John Watson, he doesn't think that he would actually want his advice. John wasn't aware of the fact that The Woman was alive, not dead and certainly not in Witness Protection in America. He wasn't aware that Sherlock had spent months during his 'death' with The Woman and that sentiment, as juxtaposed as it was to Sherlock Holmes, had overwhelmed him. Explaining to John the existence of The Woman and the child meant admitting the sentiment that Sherlock had spent nearly a year trying to suppress. He couldn't do it.
He's full of rage and anger that he knows, however much he doesn't want to admit it, is misdirected at Irene. For, if Ms Adler had arrived at Baker Street that evening alone and the child had only ever been a figment of his imagination he would not be angry. For although he would be slightly annoyed that she was taking an unnecessary risk in coming back to London, he knew she was good enough not to be caught. He wouldn't admit it, he thought, but then again when it came to Irene Adler there was a lot he wouldn't ever admit out loud, but he did miss her. He missed her flirtation and the games they had played. He would have been rather pleased to have her return to him, if only there had been no child. The child changed everything. Sherlock wasn't angry at the child; it hadn't done anything wrong, if anything Sherlock Holmes was angry at himself for succumbing to sentiment in the first place. He was embarrassed that his older brother was aware of how far he'd fallen into the murky depths of emotion, for the child was the perfect example of that, and he was angry at his brother for his unnecessary interference. Why had Irene gone to Mycroft before him? It was likely that Mycroft had been the one to approach Irene instead. Sherlock allowed the rage to consume him at the thought and his arm went out of its own accord and punched the nearest wall.
"All right mate calm down."
Sherlock whirled round, instantly regretting allowing emotions to cloud his judgement, because that wall really hurt his hand. Two drunk men were stumbling behind him and Sherlock sneered at them. He never did see the appeal of becoming incessantly drunk, it made reactions slower, the mind cloudier. That was why drugs had been his thing, it made everything work faster and it had been the perfect fix until Irene had introduced him to sex. He had never been asexual, as his brother Mycroft always had, he had merely repressed those types of desires because they had been an unnecessary hindrance to his work. Sex was messy and took time away from his experiments, it also seemed boring and useless, there was no purpose unless you wanted to have a child. However, Irene had been the one to completely revolutionise the concept of sex. With The Woman it wasn't messy or useless, and it gave him the similar fix as cocaine had once. With The Woman, sex was a game, a game that used all of Sherlock's senses and brain power and it was a game that he must win, but never did. He didn't like sex for the same reason as any other man did, such as the drunkards behind him, he liked it for the game, and that had been why he hadn't wanted to have sex since his return. He'd felt no need, no desire to have meaningless sex with just any woman, if he was going to do it, he needed The Woman. With that, he turned on his heel and pushed past the two men, still hopelessly stumbling, leading to an exchange of profanities, and walked back the way he had come, back to Baker Street. The boy was a problem, that evoked so many new emotions and feelings that Sherlock wasn't ready to address, but it was also a problem that Sherlock needed to solve. For there was not a game that Sherlock had ever played, that he didn't at least attempt to win.
Irene had known, that despite the fact there was a lot to discuss, that Sherlock was unlikely to want to talk about it just yet. It had been a mistake coming here, involving him with the knowledge of the boy and so she chose to haul her bag into Sherlock's room, place the baby carrier on the floor in her line of sight and go to sleep herself. There would be time to talk in the morning, if Sherlock cared to reciprocate with words, if not she'd leave for her old house in Belgravia and never return. It was a pity, the sex had been great, Irene smiled to herself before turning off the side light and plunging the room into darkness.
When he returns to Baker Street, trying to forget about the pounding pain that his hand is causing him, he notices immediately that she is not there. Her bag, the carrier, her and the child are nowhere in the kitchen or the living room. It worries him slightly that he feels some sort out worry at the thought of her leaving just yet, but he forces it down and reclines in his armchair. He won't miss her, he tries to tell himself. He continues to sit there, retreating into his mind palace trying to comprehend the news of the child but she keeps interrupting his thoughts. The Woman is constantly there, so much so that when the child begins to scream and Irene slips into the kitchen to warm up a bottle, it takes him a few moments to realise that it really is the woman in the flesh and not just his Mind Palace. She doesn't say a word as she mixes the formula and heats it up; grateful that she doesn't have to fish out dead fingers from the microwave first. He watches her wordlessly as she goes about making the bottle as if the moments have been learnt by rote. The child is young, two months old, hasn't developed a stable routine yet and has an irritatingly loud voice. It was lucky that Mrs Hudson was probably passed out, having been too intoxicated from the bar at the wedding. She'd be so far gone that even the child's screams wouldn't rouse her.
Irene doesn't return after she's fed Nero, instead choosing to sleep for a few more hours and to avoid the inevitable conversation with Sherlock. However, the second time that Nero rouses, at around half five in the morning, she takes him into the kitchen with her to fill up the bottle, aware that Sherlock is still wide awake and staring at them both from his chair. His eyes follow her as she bounces the child slightly and yet still warms the milk up with one hand. He doesn't offer to help; he's already made his position on the baby clear. He watches her as she picks up the bottle when it's finished, squirts some on her wrist to check the temperature and wanders over towards him, making him wonder whether she's there to give the child to him, but relaxes when instead Irene settles for sitting in John's child. It's strange but oddly satisfying watching Irene feed the baby, watching as the baby suddenly quietens as the bottle reaches his lips. Irene sighs in exhaustion and he notes the dark circles under her eyes that her makeup had previously concealed. Her hair had lost its shine, likely due to infrequent care and a cheaper conditioner.
"I don't love you." He blurts it out; stunning them both and making her look up from the baby and meet his gaze.
Her lips part slightly into a smirk as she digests the words. "I didn't come because I thought you did." She notes.
"No," Sherlock nods in agreement, embarrassed at his previous words.
"I'll leave soon." She says, moving the conversation along and ignoring the implicit meaning that could easily be deduced from his initial words. "But I'll need a key to my house."
"Of course." He replies, grateful that this gives him the prime opportunity to turn his back to her in order to stand up and fish through both of the draws to find the key to her Belgrave residence. He makes a slight show of emptying them, in order to make sure that she isn't aware that he knows exactly where the key is, right next to her phone in the draw of his desk. He eventually fishes it out and hastily shuts the draw, placing the key on the side table so she knows where it is.
"The house is empty. I sold the rest of the furniture you'd left behind to add to your funds and Mycroft's team took some things when they first heard of your death." Sherlock tells her and Irene nods, retracting the empty bottle from her son's mouth and moves to put him against her shoulder to burp him.
"I presumed they would've have done. A pity, I was a fan of the mahogany piano." She notes with a sad look.
"It'll be empty." Sherlock continues, ignoring her comment, and choosing to omit the fact that he'd actually kept the piano, it had been a truly marvellous creation and would have been a pity to sell it to some antique collector that had no desire ever to play it. "You'll time to buy new furniture." He adds. "It won't get that before tonight..."
"Yes..." She says, trailing off, trying to understand what Sherlock is trying to imply and then it hits her. She smirks and laughs slightly. "Are you inviting me to stay the night Mr Holmes?" She flirts shamelessly, despite the fact that she looks far from sexy at the moment and her words and their innuendo are inappropriately juxtaposed to the baby on her shoulder.
Sherlock's cheeks flush scarlet as she grasps the meaning of his words. "I mean, uhm..."
Irene laughs again as he stumbles slightly over his words but her smile swiftly turns serious. "Sherlock we both know that that is not what either of us wants." She can't play games anymore; she has a child to think about now. "We have a child now and I think it would be best if we leave. It was a mistake coming here, I appreciate you don't want anything to do with us and that's fine." Now that she's opened her mouth she doesn't feel as if she can stop. "When we leave, you won't need to see us ever again."
He doesn't respond, there's nothing left to say, he merely nods and busies himself with some papers on his desk as he watches her get up and retreat into his room to dress. A few minutes later, he watches her discreetly over his laptop screen as she wheels her suitcase in one hand and carries the child in its carrier in another and leaves Baker Street. This is the way it has to be, he thinks. He would have made a horrible father anyway.