Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes, freshly eighteen and made stupid by a night of heavy drinking, blinks groggily awake to the unmistakeable sound of hammering on the door. He sits up, wobbling against the wall for a moment before realigning his feet with gravity’s intentions. Squinting at the weak dawn light filtering through the window, he works out what he must have done last night. Staggered home from – he sniffs his cuffs – Gregg's pub, banged his head on the doorjamb (ouch), and landed face first on his pillows. They'll need a thorough laundering to get the traces of beer and flaky pastry out of the damask.
“Holmes!”
He winces. Ah, he knows that voice well. Fitzroy. What has he done this time to bring the man’s wrath?
When he opens the door, he is met by the furious face of a man who was almost sort of a friend when they started here at school. Callum Fitzroy, son of a long line of upper-class manipulators, is one of the cleverest people at school, only a year older than Sherlock. He could almost keep up with Sherlock, which had been the problem between them: a mutual displeasure at being challenged combining with a stubborn refusal to ever apologise for insults. “Yes. Are you here for a consultation?”
Fitzroy grinds his teeth, hands flexing. “Don’t be condescending. No, you are the one with an appointment. I’ve got a cab waiting and you’re coming with me. It’s about Melissa.” His voice is curt and hurt in the way it has been towards Sherlock for the last two years.
Ah. Melissa. Sherlock wants to ask how she fares, if she is well – if she has changed her mind and would now like to marry him, despite their youth. Another look at Fitzroy’s face confirms that if Sherlock doesn’t come willingly, he will be taken by force. One of Fitzroy’s great talents lies in various forms of pugilism, a talent which currently outmatches Sherlock’s substantially.
He goes along very, very quietly. Anxiety is not a common emotion to him – in fact, most emotions are felt either in extremis or not at all. The thrill of the hunt, anger, pain, pettiness and bitter satisfaction; on reflection, he wonders why it is that he can’t seem to have simple and nice emotions. Perhaps those with simple minds have simple emotions, and so simple lives? No, he doesn’t think that is quite true. He’ll have to examine that hypothesis later.
As the cab rattles along the London streets, Sherlock examines Fitzroy. He's been working in his father’s office, judging by the ink-stains on his fingers. Not sleeping well and spending time out of his own bed but with access to his own wardrobe. Worried half sick by something, probably Melissa’s illness. What has happened? She must be terribly, terribly sick for Fitzroy to have resorted to this.
Discomfort crawls along his body into every cell. Something is extremely wrong.
Melissa should be full of life, dark hair pinned with a military precision under a hat with some feather or ribbon trailing from it. Her dresses were always pristine, and her skin too. Much like himself, Melissa loves exactness and logical thought, turning her mind to the analysis of everyone she meets. It had been a key part of the attraction between them, as they learned the patterns of each other’s minds and he invited her to share in his investigations. They had met at one of Fitzroy’s parties over a year ago; their friendship had immediately bloomed, which had embittered Fitzroy to the extremes. He had accused Sherlock of pretending friendship with him to make a good marriage.
Sickness does not suit her. The paleness of her cheeks and the gauntness of her jaw make his stomach twist. “Sherlock,” she breathes, glassy brown eyes widening. A weak smile lifts her lips, which are fever-flushed in her pale face. He helps her take her hand from under the heavy quilt, finding the bones stark and fragile under dry skin, veins blue.
“Melissa,” he wheezes, struggling for words. Her sickness is extreme. Death is almost certain at this stage of weakness, and he finds that his heart recoils at the idea. How strange. Sherlock had begun to wonder if he had a heart.
She tugs weakly at his hand, pulling it to her lips. “We’re in a mess this time, Sherlock.” Her head tips on the pillow. “Callum, some privacy. Please.” Her breath tickles his knuckles, how he remembers it doing when they used to nap on the matching couches in his old rooms between cases. Once alone, she turns her dark eyes upon him, drinking in his face as he is drinking in hers.
He missed her.
“Oh, love,” she finally sighs. Her fingers press gently against his own. “I’ve done wrong by you. As you can see, I’m very ill. Dying, probably, the doctors say, although I would like not to.” Melissa gives her beautiful half-smile, faded by pain. “Deduce me, my love.”
Sherlock takes a shaking breath. Discomfort has become pain; concern has become sickly knowledge. “Pale skin. Severe loss of weight. A slight bulk to the abdomen which doesn’t match the other symptoms. I can see the difference now that your hand is free of the quilts.” Deduction is satisfaction, to a man like him, but this deduction is lacking in the usual result. This deduction feels to be slowly breaking his heart. “Melissa, you’re pregnant with my child, and it’s killing you.” Tears drip down his chin to land on her bedspread. When did he start crying?
She gives another weak tug at his hand. “You’re not killing me. Stop attacking yourself about it.” Her eyes close briefly as she catches her breath. After a few seconds, she rallies round. “The baby will live, I hope.”
“There can’t be more than ten weeks left, Melissa.” He leans forwards, tucking his hand to her cheek. One of his nameless emotions is taking shape. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Guilt is not an emotion he has experienced since he got old enough to ignore Mycroft, but he’s feeling it now.
A sigh makes her breath wheeze. “I was afraid. We never intended this, and then I turned you away. Callum was madder than a wild goose when I started asking for you, before I showed.” She shakes her head, smiling weakly as her eyes droop. “He said I wasn’t to write to you, and I worried he’d never fetch you.”
Sherlock scoots the chair closer to the bedside so he can rest his head on the pillow beside hers. “I should have pushed him. I’m sorry. This is my fault.” Their breath mingles, and the clock ticks the night ever closer. Undoubtedly, Sherlock will be summoned to see her father, and he worries about what will be said.
“It’s both of ours. And you’re lucky, father likes you.” Melissa’s voice trails off slightly with her exhaustion. “Stay here tonight... I’ve missed you.”
She drops down into sleep, and Sherlock stays where he promised he would.
“Mother, I need your help.”
Sherlock knows this is a lance in the dark. He very rarely asks willingly for help, and he hasn’t even written to his mother more than five times in the last six months. Eudoria Holmes is completely unsuspecting of her son’s sudden and very premature fatherhood. His mother glances from him to the bundle cradled in his arms, her eyes widening. There is a certain care which makes it very obvious when one is carrying a baby. His state of dishevelled grime will betray the journey he has undertaken. His horse, borrowed from Fitzroy's own stable, stands sweating in the night air.
Mother’s gaze hardens, and he breathes a sigh of relief: she will help him. “Inside, now,” she orders, standing aside.
He stands dripping in the hallway as mother strides off to find someone to care for the horse, holding the babe cradled close to his chest. She’s only five days old, but he couldn’t have allowed her to be taken away to a children’s home – he couldn’t allow he and Melissa’s babe to be taken away. This child is all he has left of the woman he loved.
Mother reappears with thunder in her gaze. “Upstairs,” she hisses, jabbing her hand to the staircase. Without arguing, Sherlock trails up the stairs ahead of her, probably leaving some nice wet footprints for the current maid to clean up. His daughter begins to burble at the movement. “What is her name?”
“She hasn’t got one yet,” he answers cautiously. Both he and Melissa had chosen names, but Melissa had – she had –
His mother’s hand lands on his shoulder just as his breath begins to shake. “Sherlock, son,” she says, voice unexpectedly gentle and kind, “what’s happened?” Her firm hands direct him firmly into an armchair before the library fire, already roaring. Never one to stand on ceremony, she tugs a stool over to sit directly in front of him.
How can he even begin? “Her mother is – was – Melissa Fitzroy.”
Mother’s eyes widen. “Richard and Catherine Fitzroy’s daughter?” Her hand grips his knee like a vice. “Sherlock, an explanation is in order.”
He focuses on his daughter’s tiny face and begins reciting the facts as if it’s one of his reports on a case. Oh, his mother won’t approve of this lack of emotion, but it’s all he has to keep himself steady now. Mother believes in emotions: they should be felt and processed and used as fuel to power one’s ambitions.
All his emotions have done for him is brought him here. All they have done is killed the woman he loved and given him a daughter.
Mother stands over them, watching. He supposes that the sight of him laid on the library sofa with a baby on his bare chest is unusual to say the least. “How are you doing, son?” She sits in the armchair, tea in hand, eyes warm.
His daughter squirms on his chest, reaching her wrinkly hands out to grip his offered fingers. “I’m just sad that Melissa can’t see this.” He brushes her sleeping eyelids. “She said you were to choose a name. She knew it would come to this.” After a week, he has reached a degree of calm and peace in the situation.
“Clever girl,” his mother compliments, smiling with sorrowful affection, leaning to kiss his shoulder. “What name did you choose?”
Hesitation holds his tongue for a few seconds. The naming was a private thing, but why hide from his own mother? Her mind is as sharp as his own. “Constance, she liked. I chose Alyssia.”
Mother chuckles. “Constantly beloved beyond physical appearances. A little on the nose.” She hums for a few moments, giving the matter some serious consideration. “And it is to be my choice?”
All he can manage is to nod. If this is to be the first step in his removal from his daughter’s life – for he certainly would not be able to take care of her – then he doesn’t want to have to think about it too hard.
“Enola,” his mother finally says. Sherlock blinks, surprised. Enola? It sounds nice enough, he supposes. “I realised one day that the word ‘alone’ backwards says enola, which is a pleasant sound. I had thought perhaps to use it if ever I required a cover name.”
Enola. “I do not wish her to believe her name to represent her fate,” he points out. “That sounds – well, lonely.”
Sharp as knives, Mother smiles. “Oh, she will not be alone. I shall ensure it.”
He rests his hand over her tiny back. “I will be gone from her a lot. There are too many who would grow suspicious were I to spend my whole time here.”
Mother hums, considering. “I suppose you can have two weeks to aid your aging mother,” she points out. Indeed, she has a good point. He wouldn’t cause too much of a stir to spend a fortnight with his mother, after the death of his good friend.
Enola can almost support her whole body when he holds her up by the hands, which he is deeply pleased by. Of course, any child of Melissa’s must be as clever as him, and he believes Melissa is to thank for her physical development. Mother sets down her breakfast, eyebrows working hard. "She won't be small forever, Sherlock. I know it is early in her life, but you shall be shocked at how she grows when you are apart from her."
He sets her down to play on the floor at his feet, grabbing at the wooden blocks he hopes will see her through her childhood. At four months old, her hands are too tiny still to hold a block in each, so she has to use both hands for each brick, propping herself up on his leg to keep her balance. Such simple innocence and sweetness is not a part of the life of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. This peaceful childhood belongs to his mother. "Is she well?"
His mother smiles. "Very well. Very clever." As usual, her dark hair is piled up in an artfully arranged riotous bundle. Enola's own young curls are softer, more like his own. No, she won't be small forever.
In return he manages a weak smile. In truth, he can't find humour when he’s away from Enola. Not anymore. Leaving is becoming harder, too; leaving London, leaving her. He feels constantly torn between the two places in a way he can't manage to ignore. It’s like the heart which broke for Melissa can only beat in proximity to his daughter.
"Enola!" He calls for her without thought, dropping his bags on the mat and running up the hall to where his mother holds his daughter. Three months he lasted this time - thirty-three days less than last time. He can only spare the weekend to be with her, but it will be worth it. Anything would be, to be with his daughter for her first birthday. Granted, he still isn’t sure he sees the point in birthday celebrations when there is plenty else to celebrate, but it’s a nice sentiment.
She shrieks in delight, tearing away from Mother and throwing herself from her arms into his. Her tiny head fits into his neck like it was born (it was, she was born for him, part of him to love) to sit there. He still only needs one arm to hold her, but he wraps both hands around her tiny body and picks her up.
"Hello, Sherlock," his mother says. He kisses her cheek as usual, but she doesn't press for further affection. "She spoke last week, you know. Her first full word other than mama."
Babbling isn't speech, even though he always dedicates himself wholly to her in a way he never expected. But her first word! He missed it, and something about that stings.
Mother gazes at him for a second, eyes warm. "She said Sherlock."
Oh, his beautiful, wonderful daughter. For a second, he thinks he's had a heart attack. Enola grabs his collar and babbles sounds and half-words at him, laughing wildly when he tucks his head to blow raspberries against her skin, distracting him from his pain.
Mother smiles. “No interference of mine, of course. I was working on the word suffragette myself, but clearly her adoration for you trumps my love of women’s rights.”
Sherlock kisses his daughter’s tiny face as the love burns through his veins. “Thank you for all you do, mother.”
“Sherlock!”
He startles, gazing at Enola in delight. “You clever girl! That’s right!”