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John sat alone; sipping the last of the bottle of Champagne the three of them had shared, to toast the New Year. He watched the fire burn in the fireplace; his thoughts matched the cold, dark room. It had been an hour since he had convinced Mary to go to bed without him, and almost two since Sherlock had gone to his own, still not wanting to be far from Rebecca. Rebecca. Normally the thought of the little girl would be enough to lift his spirits, even if she had only been in his life for a few weeks, but not tonight. Tonight, she was most of the reason for his dark mood. No, that was wrong, it wasn’t her, the thought of her inquisitive eyes, and bright smile had nothing to do with the feelings that chilled him to the bone. He instinctively moved closer to the fire, but it didn’t help. John Watson was no stranger to fear. How could he be? He was a veteran of three different wars. Afghanistan was the war everyone knew about, James Moriarty was the war everyone guessed, but it was a different war he was remembering now. A war no one knew he had survived. He couldn’t claim to have won it. He had lived through it, as had his sister, though barely.
His mind drifted to the past, to the darkness that had reigned over his childhood. He could remember a time before the pain, though barely. He remembered the day the world as he knew it, had ended. He remembered waking to his mother screaming at the man at the door. He remembered the look on the officer’s face, when he came down the stairs to find out why. The professional sympathy, a look he had learned to master himself, the look that told him everything. He remembered Harry standing at the top of the stairs, looking up at her, seeing her lips in a tight line, she knew too. He walked up to the door, and wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck. She held him tightly as she sobbed, he didn’t know it at the time, how could he, he wasn’t quite seven yet, but that would be the last time she would hold him. That moment changed his definition of family forever, now he needed to change it again, for the sake of the three people sleeping in the flat that would always be home to him.
He remembered the funeral, all the people that had taken their time out to bury his father, a man everyone loved and admired. To show their support for the “perfect” family he left behind. The beautiful widow, sweet daughter just a week past her ninth birthday and the handsome young son, weeks from his seventh birthday. He remembered the weeks after, as his mother became more and more distant. He and Harry had to learn to fend for themselves. The days he would come home after school, and she would still be in bed, he would make dinner and clean the best he could. Harry was always mad, she screamed, she threw things, she cried, nothing she did changed anything. He remembered watching her beg their mother, to go to her dance recital. To no avail, the woman didn’t say anything. She would eat if food was put in front of her, she would bathe when John or Harry drug her to the bath. Otherwise, there was no way to tell that she was even in the house. Harry would bring her the cheques that came in the mail, and make her sign them. She would be the one to take them to the bank. Everyone was so understanding, but no one was willing to do anything. Not knowing that, those would be the best of his memories, from his childhood after his father had died.
Then the drinking started, and the pills. Doctors would give her pills to help her recover; sometimes she would take them sometimes she wouldn’t. That led to mood swings, as her body tried to cope with the fluctuation and chemical imbalance. After the day he turned 12 all of his memories of his mother involved her being drunk. He would come home from school hoping to find her passed out, the other option was angry. She was never an angry drunk, until his father died. After that she just couldn’t cope with life, let alone her children. A daily reminder of what she lost.
John looked up at Sherlock’s bedroom door. How easy would it have been for Sherlock to take that route? For him to dread, everyday, looking at Rebecca. What was different about them? Sherlock looked at Rebecca, he saw her mother, but instead of turning away he pulled her closer. He loved that little girl with an intensity that could barely be measured. She was his life now. As far as he was concerned, she was everything that was good in the world, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her safe. What would his life be if his mother had taken Sherlock’s route? What if she had looked at Him and Harry as the best gift that her husband, of over a decade, had given her? Not only a reminder of what she lost but, also what she had. What if she had traced his eyes, his nose, and his chin as reverently, as Sherlock traces Rebecca’s lips, cheeks, and brows? He was happy, and at peace, even with everything they had been through. Things that no child should have to know existed, were that baby’s day-to-day, until mere weeks ago. Rebecca was conceived from torture and rape, it was hard for him to think about that, but he couldn’t shy away from it. How easy would it have been for her mother to blame Sherlock? Sherlock would have allowed her to, as often as he blamed himself for what he was forced to do to Karen. How easy would it have been for Sherlock to blame Rebecca, he was raped just as much as Karen? Her existence was the product of two people being beaten until they did whatever their captors ordered. Her birth had cost Karen her life, yet when Sherlock held that little girl, it was as if his life hadn’t begun, until hers had. Sherlock and Karen had both, rightly, blamed their captors for their assault, and Sherlock still blamed Moran specifically for Karen’s death. As for Rebecca, Sherlock still treasures Karen for giving him their daughter, and Karen was grateful towards Sherlock for giving her a child.
“Yah, way to fail at being a sociopath Sherlock” John chuckled at the air. Thinking back, his mother was the sociopath, not Sherlock. Turned into one by tragedy, but her concern began and ended with herself.
He remembered his mother screaming at him for some perceived slight, or beating him with one of his father’s belts, or a riding crop. She never bothered to hide the marks, and bruises, she didn’t have to. Teachers and nurses, even the school administrators blamed him for her outbursts. Hadn’t she been through enough by now, without having to deal with unruly and disrespectful children? Was it any wonder he had trust issues? The fact that he was able to trust at all, a testament to his nature and his father's early influence.
He remembered the day he came home from basic training, he hadn’t been surprised to find his mother’s body lay across her bed. The bottle of pills next to her bed, he hid the bottle of vodka in Harry’s room; that was the extent of family loyalty he held towards the dead woman. He should have felt something seeing her lifeless body, but the only thing her could muster, when he would admit it to himself, was relief. He hated himself for that sometimes, but nothing changed the fact that she had made her children’s lives hell. Harry was going to drink herself into an early grave, if she didn’t kill herself first, and John had ended up on the wrong side of a bullet. From the day he signed up for the army, to the day he got shot, he knew he was going to be a battlefield casualty. Until he had been invalided home, twice now, once from Afghanistan and once after Sherlock jumped. Now the war was back, he felt alive again. Almost as if he could make enough of a difference, he could become more than the useless waste that his mother always called him. Harry had taken her words to heart, that was where all of her problems came from. She didn’t believe she deserved Clara, so she walked out, never looking back. She didn’t believe she deserved anything more than the same fate as her mother. John was counting down the days until he got the call that she had followed their mother’s path.
Surprisingly enough, it was Irene Adler, and not Sherlock that had seen the signs of childhood abuse. As much as he wanted to hate her for playing with Sherlock, he couldn’t. She saw his fear when she stood over Sherlock’s prone form with a riding crop, even though he tried to blame it on concern for the drugs she used, she could see right through him. All through their ordeal she had tread carefully with John, never showing even the barest hint of anger, or malice, never once reminding him of his mother.
Now he had a family; Mary, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Rebecca. They were counting on him. He was the glue that would keep them together. He had to be, they needed him to be that. To them he was everything that a man should be. They looked at him and saw a soldier; loyal, brave, and trustworthy. They saw a doctor; intelligent, kind, and compassionate. They saw a friend that would never turn his back on you, a lover that would never betray you, a safe haven in the storms that life could wield. They saw him as the man he wanted to be, as long as he could see himself through their eyes, he could be that man, but that brought with it another problem. His mind wondered back to the restaurant a few weeks ago, and Sherlock’s return.
What if?
What if he hadn’t punched Sherlock, and he had continued the conversation inside?
What if he had punched him again in the alley?
What if he had held Sherlock back when they heard Rebecca scream?
What if he had refused to follow Sherlock; and the bastard that grabbed her had gotten away?
What if he hadn’t grabbed Rebecca, so Sherlock could deal with the kidnapper?
There were so many things that could have gone wrong; all of them could have ended with the little girl’s death. He would be the one responsible for that little girl dying, and he would have killed his best friend. If she had died, he would have followed within hours, this time there would be no coming back, and it would have been John’s fault. He almost did punch him again, he almost did hold him up, and he almost did demand an explanation first. While a man that worked for a criminal; that raped, murdered and tortured, for fun; kidnapped a baby that he wanted dead from the moment her discovered her existence. He would have killed her in front of Sherlock’s eyes, and enjoyed doing it, and John had been a hairs breadth away from letting him.
His mind conjured up images of what Moran’s man would have done to Rebecca, if he had gotten away. He had to know he was going to die, Anthea had managed to get his gun and a knife away from him, and so he couldn’t kill them in the car. His next move was to get Rebecca away. Would he slit her throat and send her lifeless body to Sherlock? Or would he draw Sherlock to where he had her, make him watch as he stabbed the baby? Would he have offered Sherlock an exchange, his own life, for the chance that Rebecca would survive? Would he have simply killed them both? All John knew, for a fact, was how close she had come to being murdered that night, and it would have been his fault. He would have let someone kill a child, because he wanted answers. That thought kept him up at night, how could he live with himself, knowing he could have gotten that baby killed, and for what? Selfishness? Pride? Anger? Was he really any better than his mother told him? What kind of man could hear a little girl scream and not drop everything to help? He had followed, but it was close, far too close for his comfort.
Sherlock’s door opened, he looked over to see Rebecca poking her head out of the bedroom, interrupting his dark thoughts. She was starting to get used to the idea that she was safe in the flat, especially if John and Mary were there. “Come here” he said gently, reaching out for the little girl. He finished his wine and lifted her onto his lap. He stood up and settled on the sofa, thinking it would be better for Rebecca. “You have a very special daddy, did you know that?” he asked the little girl. She looked at him so seriously, he had to smile. “He is one of the bravest, smartest, and kindest men I have ever known. Do you know how I know that?” he asked the little girl, she just shook her head. He pulled her in closer, resting her head against his heart, breathing in the scent of her hair. “Because he has the bravest, smartest, prettiest, nicest little girl on earth” he kissed the top of her head as he told her that. “Want me to tell you a story?” he asked, “would that help you sleep?” she nodded and rubbed her eyes cuddling in for story time. Holding the little girl, he relaxed, he knew there was no way he could let anything happen to her. The way she trusted him entirely, the way her father trusted him completely, he allowed himself to trust their judgment about him. “There was once a pirate, so strong, and so brave, he managed to free an entire kingdom from the evil, wicked, horrible, duke that had stolen the king’s, very, crown.”
Sherlock woke early New Year’s Day, alone in his bed for one of the first times in almost three years. He looked around the room, to see if Rebecca had fallen out of bed, during the night. Confused more than worried, he left the room looking for her. He told himself he wouldn’t panic, until he had checked the entire flat. After all, John and Mary were here. Between the three of them, if she wasn’t safe here, she wasn’t safe anywhere, he forced his breathing to remain steady. Looking around he noticed the door was opened slightly, enough for a toddler to go through, not enough for an adult. He figured that the most likely place she would be was the sitting room, then John and Mary’s room.
Walking into the sitting room answered all his questions. Seeing John sleeping with Rebecca tucked up, under his chin, his arms wrapped protectively around her. The peaceful look on both faces answered all his questions. He must have stopped blaming himself for the things in her past he couldn’t control, and was probably on his way to forgiving himself the things in his own past he couldn’t control. Sherlock sat on his chair silently, before arranging himself to look like he threw himself onto the seat. Watching the pair surreptitiously, taking comfort in the protective way John held Rebecca, he allowed his mind to wander, committing every important detail of the past three years to long term memory. Allowing himself luxuries he hadn’t been able to indulge in years. He allowed himself to think about Karen. Building up a complete picture of her, in his mind. He tried to conjure up memories of her voice, the colour of her eyes, and the exact shade of her hair when the sun hit it. He never wanted to forget her smile, even as rarely as they had cause to smile. Recreating her in his head, detail by detail he tried to create an image of what she would be like, if she were still alive.
All of the time they had spent together was either as a captive, or fugitive, he couldn’t use much of that to know what she would look like sitting at the table drinking her coffee, morning sun shining on her long chestnut brown hair. He built an image of her lying on the bed, Rebecca between them, marveling at the beautiful creature that had come from their union. Of holding her hand, Rebecca running ahead at the park, both of them smiling at the happy child. Her laugh as she would sit on the sofa, his head in her lap, as Lestrade and Rebecca cover the underside of the coffee table with stickers. No one had to know about his sentimental lapses, they were all safely tucked up in a private corner of his mind, where no one else could ever see them.
Maybe he would sketch some of them out for Rebecca. He wanted her to know her mother, one day he would find a way, but that was a concern for another day. Today, he allowed himself to get lost in thought, knowing his daughter was safe, and happy. The perfect start to the year, let everyone believe he is thinking about getting back into “the work” he has something more important in mind, Rebecca’s second birthday. This year would be her first birthday party, and he was looking forward to it.