Work Text:
Four months. Sherlock hadn't seen John in almost four months. Sixteen weeks, five days and nine hours.
And still counting.
He wouldn't see him anymore, though, would he?
But she was sitting in front of him. Right there. He was staring at her, observing her. She was just staring back at him with a curiosity that was not quite from this world. He had never seen anything like it.
How did this happen?
***
There had been two phone calls. Not from the same person and not even in the same night. The only thing those two phone calls had in common was that they turned Serlock's world upside down.
The first one was in January at five am. Sherlock had just gone to bed when it started ringing. With a groan and a swear that they couldn't leave him alone for one bloody minute he snatched the phone from the bedside table, expecting it to be Lestrade over the new case that was barely a four and not worth coming out of bed for.
When he saw John's name on the screen his throat turned into a desert. His finger trembled as he pushed the green button.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said quietly, his voice surprisingly steady.
"You'll never guess who's lying in my arms right now, Sherlock." John's voice was thick with pride and joy and unbelief. It was a whisper that went right to Sherlock's heart and shattered it into a million pieces.
"John," was the only thing he could say, his mind didn't cooperate anymore.
"She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, Sherlock. God, she's beautiful."
"What's her name?" He managed to sound very close to happy, only one who was really paying attention would notice it wasn't sincere. But John wasn't paying attention, too focused on his little miracle in his arms.
"Rose," he said so softly as if he was talking to her and not to Sherlock. "Her name is Rose."
***
Sherlock went to see her the following day, because John insisted.
He didn't know it back then, but it was the last time he'd see John.
He even had a present, safely tucked under his coat to protect the colourful wrapping paper from the rain. It was a teddy bear, much like the one he used to have when he was a little boy. He stubbornly refused to call it sentiment.
John opened the door for him and his smile was dazzling. Sherlock had never seen him smile like that, it was contagious. John hugged him tightly and Sherlock -surprised- just awkwardly patted his back.
"I'm so glad you're here. Come in." John closed the door behind him.
Mary looked awful, but very very happy. Sherlock was quite fascinated with the fact that someone so shattered could be so content. She was looking at a small bundle in her arms, a loving smile on her lips.
"Hi, Sherlock," she said, directing her smile at him for a second before turning back to the baby in her arms.
"Hello, Mary, how are you doing?" He already knew the answer, but in this situation, there was no other option than small talk.
"Exhausted, but it couldn't be better. She's all worth it." John was standing next to her now, his hand on her shoulder as he, too, looked at the tiny creature in Mary's arms.
"Come, take a look," he said softly, gesturing for Sherlock to come closer, "she's sleeping."
He came closer and there she was, barely a day old. A very small, very pink face was visible, with a very small nose, a very small mouth and very small closed eyes. A little hand with tiny tiny fingers peeked out of the blankets next to her head. John touched her hand and the fingers wriggled, making her parents laugh.
The room was too small all of a sudden. It was too hot, there wasn't enough air. Sherlock felt nauseous, a heavy feeling clawed at his chest and throat.
"Are you all right, Sherlock?" he heard John ask as if from a distance. "Sherlock?"
"Hmm? Yeah, 's fine, everything's fine. Just gonna get some air." He muttered something about the smell of hospitals which made absolutely no sense, but was the only thing his mind could come up with, before he exited the room and went outside.
Air. Air, air, air. He gasped as if he'd been under water for hours. He sat down and held his head between his knees, reciting the elements of the periodic table in correct order with their atomic numbers and weights. The wrapping paper rumpled against his stomach.
By the time John came to check on him, Sherlock stood straight again and had just finished his second cigarette.
Before John could say anything, Sherlock thrust the present in his hands.
"I bought her a present," he clarified quite needlessly. However, it made John smile again.
"Sherlock Holmes in a babyshop, I wished I'd seen that." Sherlock just smirked.
"Come back in, then Mary can open it," John continued, already turning to go back.
"Lestrade called, it's quite a big case, triple murder, and he needs me, it's urgent he said," Sherlock lied fluently. He pretended not to see the disappointment in John's eyes.
After a quiet 'oh okay' and awkward 'see you later' and 'take care', Sherlock hailed a cab. He couldn't keep himself from looking back to the lonely figure on the pavement, staring at the cab with the colourful present in his hands.
It was the last image Sherlock had of John.
***
In the following months, Sherlock typed three hundred and eighty-seven texts to John and deleted three hundred and eighty of them before they were sent. The other seven were answers to John's texts that yes, he's still alive, and no, unfortunately, he's too busy to come and visit now, but he'll let him know when he can.
Once, he almost sent one about a case, asking John for help. But then he remembered the very small and very pink face, and deleted it. John had more important stuff to think about right now. The case was also too dangerous, now Sherlock thought about it. He didn't want to be the reason John couldn't see Rose grow up.
So he solved the cases alone. He asked Molly again at first, but she declined, she said the one time had been wonderful, but she preferred the morgue.
His mind refused to be alone, though, reproducing John's voice while he was examining a body or looking at the maps on the walls of 221b. Show off, it would say. You know you can be a dick sometimes? Things like that. The strange thing was: it was never the 'brilliant' or 'amazing' John breathed after a deduction, the ones Sherlock preferred. The ones he missed.
In those months, he turned into a chimney. He smoked a packet a day and it still wasn't enough, so sometimes, between cases it became two packets. Mrs Hudson started complaining about the smell and worried over his health, but he ignored her, lighting another cigarette while doing so.
There were days he just sat in his chair, staring at John's empty one, rewinding every single moment he almost told John. God, he wanted to tell him, to text it to him, to throw it at him, to shake him and scream it in his face until he listened. Until he knew. He just wanted him to know.
But what then? What would happen then?
Then there were days he was so angry. Just so, inexplicably, excruciatingly, fucking angry. He went to the morgue those days and beat up as much corpses as he could get from Molly. When he was kicked out, he shot the walls, he flipped the tables, he smashed plates and mugs to the ground, he ripped every single piece of paper he could find, and he chased as much criminals as he could to take it all out on them.
But why was the anger still there? Why didn't it just go away?
And there were days he was certain he'd lost his mind. And he absolutely couldn't care less. He giggled out of nowhere, laughed like a madman and said everything in singsong. Everything was so ridiculous and funny suddenly. And nobody else seemed to even notice it. Mycroft visited on one of those days, he was 'just-in-the-neighbourhood-and-thought-he-might-as-well-pop-in'. And Sherlock almost choked in a fit of giggles when Mycroft attempted small talk and avoided the subject John so desperately obvious. The pitiful expression on Mycroft's face was priceless. Just look at it! He knew how hard Sherlock needed John and how hard John didn't need Sherlock. Everyone knew. It was hilarious. All of it, this whole fucked up situation. Sherlock's belly ached and he had tears in his eyes by the end of Mycroft's visit.
He was insane.
Yeah, that must be it.
***
The second phone call came in May at three am. Sherlock had been very much awake and very much ignoring the text-alerts that made his phone buzz every two seconds. But when it started ring, he couldn't ignore it any longer.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said, holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder so he could still type away on his laptop.
"Why won't you open the bloody door? I'm standing here for half an hour already." Lestrade. He didn't sound as annoyed as he should be, more like he was... upset. And why was Lestrade in front of his door at three am?
"The door bell is in the fridge, I couldn't hear it," Sherlock says, moving his laptop away.
"Why is it- never mind," he definitely sounded tired, "just come and open the door. It's um... It's John." His voice wavered.
And Sherlock knew.
The phone fell to the ground, Sherlock descended the stairs. He held his hand on the door knob for a minute. What if he didn't open the door? He could just go back upstairs. Everything was okay. Lestrade could be here for any reason, it didn't have to be... Maybe he was still...
He opened the door.
Lestrade's face said enough.
"I want to see him." Sherlock's voice didn't even catch at the end.
"I don't think that's a good-"
"I want to see him, Lestrade. I have to see him." There must have been something else in his voice, though, because Lestrade just nodded.
***
So it wasn't Sherlock. The reason John couldn't see Rose grow up, it wasn't Sherlock after all.
It had been a junkie behind the wheel at two am on a goddamned deserted road.Well, deserted except for John and Mary. It had been their first night out again since Rose was born, they'd left her with a friend of Mary for the night. Sherlock was sure they didn't even want to go out that night, someone had told them to. Told them fresh parents should have lives themselves, too.
Sherlock wanted to strangle the person who'd told them.
In the car to St. Bart's, Sherlock thought about his last image of John. He'd never asked if he liked the teddy bear.
***
Sherlock didn't flinch. He didn't cry, he didn't move, he didn't blink, he didn't breathe.
And he didn't look away. He couldn't. Because this was it, the real last image of John, and he had to map everything. Save. Every. Single. Thing.
He had a quick death by the look of his wounds. Barely noticed what was happening.
Sherlock watched his fingers stroke the slightly greying hair at John's temples, then they followed his hairline along his forehead, some strands were red. He could feel soft hair on one side of his finger and cold skin on the other side.
too cold too cold too cold
Sherlock wanted to pretend he was sleeping, but lying on that metal table, he looked very much dead. And he wasn't him anymore. John wasn't John anymore, Sherlock could feel it. This was not John Watson. John Watson, son, brother, soldier, doctor, husband, father. Saviour.
it isn't him it isn't him it isn't him
And Sherlock felt like he wasn't Sherlock anymore. Not really. How could he ever be without John Watson there by his side? His fingers were shaking as they traced John's cheeks and lips.
come back come back come back
***
"What happens with her?"
Dawn painted the windows of 221b a soft pink. How can it only be dawn? This nightmare is going on for ages.
Sherlock paced through the room. He had to keep moving, he mustn't think, he mustn't think. He could hear Mrs Hudson crying in her kitchen downstairs.
"You know, John was prepared for this," Lestrade said, sitting on the sofa, "As a doctor, he knew it could go fast, I guess. He had a will and... well..."
"And what?" Sherlock snapped
"And you. He wrote you down as her guardian if anything was to happen to them."
Sherlock stopped pacing and turned around to make sure Lestrade wasn't making a very inappropriate joke. He wasn't.
"Me? Why did he choose me?" He'd gone very quiet, tried to swallow the lump in his throat.
There was a short silence and then: "You know why, Sherlock."
***
And now she was sitting in front of him. Right there. He was staring at her, observing her. She was just staring back at him with a curiosity that was not quite from this world. He had never seen anything like it.
Baker Street had been transformed into a baby-friendly environment. Sherlock got rid of the cigarettes first, he made sure any dangerous substances from his experiments were safely in the fridge or high cupboards, and the furniture he needed had been moved from John's house to the flat.
He didn't know what to do next.
"I should talk to you, shouldn't I?" he said, "The first ten months are crucial in a baby's life, they unconsciously learn a whole language just by hearing other people talk. It's fascinating." Rose showed her agreement with a little bit of drool. Her big, blue eyes wandered over the room.
"I'll be honest with you, I don't know how to do this." He wriggled his finger between them. "I've read a couple of books for a case once, but I never expected to... become one," he finished lamely. He didn't dare to use the word father, because was he? Should she call him 'Dad'? He panicked because he didn't know he didn't know he didn't know.
What was he supposed to do?
***
There were problems. A lot of problems.
First of all, Rose started crying and Sherlock didn't know what for. He asked her what was wrong and was frustrated because babies can't answer, idiot. He prepared her a bottle of milk -Mrs Hudson had showed him how to do it-, quite clumsily picked her up and gave it to her, sitting in his chair, her head on his left shoulder and his arm around her tiny body. She stopped crying and drank happily.
Seeing her like this, Sherlock silently started crying himself.
Then there were the nappies. How could such a small person stink so much? The first time Sherlock had to do it, he really didn't know where to start. He refused to ask Mrs Hudson about this one, he read about it, he should be able to do it.
"Okay, let's see," he said when he unfolded the dirty nappy. "Why are you smiling at me?" His hands stilled, momentarily distracted. At four months, babies deliberately smiled when they were happy. "Do you like getting a new nappy?" Her smile widened while he spoke. "Is it my voice?" She smiled again.
He talked to her a lot more after that.
And sometimes she wouldn't stop crying. He prepared her bottle, she didn't want it, he checked if she had a dirty nappy, she didn't. She just kept crying. He gave her her pacifier, he put her in her bouncy seat. This would usually make her stop for a couple of minutes.
She wants movement, but her bouncy seat isn't enough.
Sherlock couldn't come up with anything else than to pick her up and walk through the flat with her, preferably with her sitting on his hands an wrists, her back against his chest so she could look around. This worked.
"You're a curious little lady, aren't you?" he mumbled.
She smiled.
***
He didn't go to the funeral.
He walked through the flat with Rose in his arms instead.
How had John been able to bear it when it had been the other way around?
***
"I don't want you here," he confessed when she was lying on her play mat, entertained by just watching the toys dangling above her. "I've only seen you once before this, in the hospital. You weren't even a day old. I was there, I was the first one to see you except for your parents." He tried very hard not to think about said parents. "And it was too much. I couldn't..." he inhaled shakily. "I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear you."
Rose stretched her small hand to one of the toys.
"I don't want you here," he repeated. "I'm not good enough for you. Not if you could've had..." he faltered, the lump in his throat was too big. He cleared his throat and looked away from Rose, out of the window. He tried again. "I don't want you here because it means he's... He's... not." He swallowed down the tears and stared at the window where the sky was leaving tears in his place.
***
Sometimes it became too much for Sherlock. All of it. The crying, the smiling, the feeding, the sleeping, the walking, the talking. She looked so much like him. Sherlock couldn't unsee it. And it was too much.
So he left her with Mrs Hudson sometimes or even with Lestrade when Mrs Hudson had one of her bridge nights. Then he experimented and looked at Lestrade's case files until his eyes hurt and he couldn't control himself anymore. His fingers started shaking violently and the trembling extended until his whole body was shuddering.
He screamed in the pillows until his throat hurt and his voice was gone, and then he screamed some more until his heart was bleeding and no sound was left except for his hoarse sobs. His screams where just screams in the beginning, but somehow they turned into John's name. His sobs always ended in 'come back, come back, please, come back to me'.
Why did it hurt so fucking much?
***
He wouldn't admit it, but he was always so happy to have Rose back in his arms.
***
Sherlock knew it was Mycroft the moment he heard footsteps on the stairs. He stayed where he was, looking through his microscope and writing down the new data. The baby monitor next to him was silent.
"Good afternoon, brother mine," Mycroft said from the doorway.
"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock greeted him.
He could hear the fake smile slip from his face, replaced by a stern look.
"I could ask the same of you," Mycroft said, his tone was accusatory.
"I expected you sooner," Sherlock admits, scribbling in a notebook.
Mycroft ignored him, he sat down on the chair opposite Sherlock. "What are you thinking? I didn't know you were this foolish. You can't keep her, Sherlock, you can't take care of her."
Sherlock stiffened and glared at Mycroft from under his lashes. "What makes you say that?"
An exasperated sigh escaped Mycrofts mouth. "You can't even take care of yourself, you barely eat, you hardly sleep, you have a past of bad habits and tend to lose yourself in a dangerous job. Just look at yourself. This is hardly a suitable place to raise a baby."
"I'm managing perfectly fine, thank you."
"You're not him, Sherlock."
All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room. Sherlock could hear his rapid heart beat in his ears. He balled his hands into fists on his thighs and stared at them as he tried to calm himself.
"You're not her father. You're not John Watson."
Breathe.
"I think it's better for you to leave, Mycroft. She is staying, it's not open for discussion."
When Mycroft didn't move, Sherlock added, "Do I have to escort you to the door or will you be able to find the way out yourself?"
Mycroft stood up. He turned around again in the doorway. "Oh, Sherlock, I hope you know what you're doing."
***
Lying on a play mat, watching the toys above you, was really peaceful. Rose was lying next to him, making the baby noises Sherlock was getting used to -they, too, had a calming effect on him. Their heads were close together and their legs were each pointing in another direction. Sherlock held the teddy bear he'd given in his hands on his stomach, he'd found it in the crib at John's house. Apparently, John had liked it after all.
"I'd always thought we would figure it out. That we would end up together. I was wrong, obviously. I hate being wrong, you should know that."
Rose was wriggling her chubby legs and arms, continueing the baby noises. Sherlock turned his head to look at her, she was staring intently at her hands, a little frown on her forehead. He smiled at her.
"Yes, those are yours, Rose. They're called hands," he clarified for her. She kept staring as if she'd never seen anything stranger. Sherlock sat up a little and turned to her, leaning on one elbow.
"Maybe I should teach you another language now you can still learn it so easily, what do you think? French? Russian? Italian? Japanese maybe? Your pick."
She chose that moment to brabble something completely unintelligible. Sherlock laughed -when was the last time he'd laughed?
"I agree, let's stick to English for the time being."
***
He bought a baby carrier. It was a gift from heaven! When Rose was inconsolable again, he could carry her against his chest, walk around the flat and still have his hands free to actually do something.
He even could go outside now. To the grocery store or the park with Rose safely strapped against him.
Sometimes even the baby carrier wasn't good enough, though. Sherlock tried to console her by walking around, by stroking her back and swaying her softly up and down. He told her everything was all right in a soothing voice but even that didn't make her smile.
what would John do what would John do what would John do.
And he found himself humming. He sang quietly what had been John's favourite song.
And Rose stopped crying. So he sang to her the whole night.
The next time she wouldn't stop crying, he was prepared. He lay her down on her play mat, plucked his violin from where it was collecting dust in its case and played her a lullaby he had composed in his head. The crying quieted down and she fell asleep.
When the lullaby was finished, Sherlock laid her down in her crib and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead.
***
Sherlock was at a crime scene. It was empty except for a flower. It was a rose. Lestrade stood next to him.
"She was found by a jogger an hour ago, mid-twenties. She was dead eight hours already before she was found, so that makes nine now."
Sherlock knelt down beside the rose, he put on his gloves and started examining it. "Did she have any identification on her?"
"No, it was just the body, no bag or phone."
"I see," Sherlock said, standing up to retrieve his magnifying glass from his coat. When he opened it and looked down again, it wasn't the rose anymore he was looking at. It was John. John on a metal table just as in St. Bart's.
"No. No, not again. Not. Again," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. He wanted to run, wanted to look away, to close his eyes. His fingers reached out to touch John's white cheek instead. John's eyes opened at the touch and they were the dark blue oceans Sherlock remembered so well.
"John." His vision blurred with tears. He missed those eyes so much. "John." He almost choked on the word.
He gasped as a cold hand closed around his wrist.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John said, sitting up, but it wasn't his voice. It was Mycroft's.
And he was standing in Mycroft's office now and his brother was looking down at him and kept saying you're not him, you're not him, you're not him.
But Sherlock was looking around him like a madman, because John had been there and his eyes had been open and they had been so so blue.
He couldn't lose him again. Not again.
Sherlock woke up to a crying Rose.
He didn't know what was happening, his throat hurt, his cheeks were wet, he was panting and sweating. He was in his bed. A dream. It was all a dream.
But Rose wasn't, and she was still crying. He leaped out of bed and took her out of the crib, hugging her against him.
"Ssh, it's all right. Everything's all right," he whispered, still panting. He sat down on the bed again, his back against the headboard.
"I'm not him. I'll never be him and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Rose slowly calmed down at the soft sound of his whispers. "But I'll do everything I can, Rose. I'll do anything for you. I promise."
It wasn't only a promise to this Watson.
Rose fell asleep like that, calmed by the beating of Sherlock's heart under her ear, while Sherlock was drifting off, calmed by the weight of Rose's body on his chest.
Just before sleep overtook him he whispered, "I love you, Rose."
***
At six months, Rose went to the playgroup for the first time. (Sherlock insisted on seeing all of the staff first, deducing if they would suffice. He definitely did not cry when he left her there the first day.) Sherlock could take little cases again now.
When Rose was one year old, she started to take her first steps and started to talk. Her first word was 'idiot'. (Understandable when one knows Mycroft was visiting.)
When Rose was five years old, she helped Sherlock with a case for the first time. (Accidentally, because she was playing with her teddy bears and spilled some tea on them. The victim had a tea stain Sherlock thought was unimportant, but appeared to be the clue to the killer. "You're a genius," he'd said, kissing a laughing Rose on the cheek.)
At six years old, Sherlock taught Rose to swim, ride a bike and to play the violin. (She luckily didn't have John's 'musical talent'.)
When she was seven years old, Sherlock only spoke Russian with her for a year. (She'd been sulking the first month because she couldn't understand him, but could speak it fluently by July.)
On her ninth birthday, Rose said she wanted a dog or a pony or both, and Sherlock gave her a goldfish. She'd never been so angry. (She got a kitten later that year from one of Sherlock's cases. She'd never been so happy.)
On her twelfth birthday, Sherlock took her to her first crime scene because she kept complaining. (She came along when she didn't have school ever since, and sometimes when she did have school, but that was their little secret -except when Sherlock thought it was too dangerous, though.)
At the age of fourteen, Sherlock told Rose everything there was about John Hamish Watson. ("You loved him," she deduced. "I still do," he said softly.)
When she was sixteen, Rose had her first boyfriend. (Sherlock interrogated him and scared him with his experiments, deductions and long stares until he scuttled out of the flat. It was the most fun he had in years.)
She graduated in forensic medicine when she was twenty-five, joined the army until she was twenty-seven and married at twenty-eight. Her first child was born when she was thirty and her second at thirty-two. (All those things made Sherlock cry a little, though he wouldn't admit it.)
At the age of forty-two, she sat next to a hospital bed, holding Sherlock's hand. "You have your flaws, and I have mine, but I'm so grateful you've taken care of me. I couldn't imagine a better father," she whispered, he just smiled and patted her hand, because it hurt too much to talk. (And then, just before he drifted off: "Now you'll see him again." Sherlock could hear the smile on her face. "Say hi from me, will you? I love you, Dad.")
***
Sherlock Holmes raising a child. John would've wished he'd seen it.