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Sherlock sat in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was nervous. Very nervous. At any moment, John Watson would arrive with something life-changing. Each time the floor creaked, or a branch tapped the window, his eyes would dart to the doorway only to find it empty.
Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to relax. Clear his mind. Think. Think about anything else. The current case he was working on, perhaps. In a moment he could see the crime scene just the way he left it, and he could see himself walking through it. The sister had obviously done it. She was crying when he asked her questions, but those weren't real tears. They rolled down her cheek as she sobbed, just as a child would when trying to con their mother out of an extra treat. What gave her away was her lips. The simple frown she wore. When people cried, when people were truly upset, their lips would pull themselves back to reveal teeth, a smile in a way. The sister didn't have that expression. It was just a frown anyone could fake. But finding out how she did it was the difficult piece. She couldn't be arrested on just what he said (Lestrade made that very clear) so he had to expose her. She'd make a mistake eventually and he'd--
“Hello?”
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he saw John standing before him. The doctor smiled, but his eyes looked tired and his hair was sloppy and ruffled about. The jacket he was wearing had been quickly pulled on and was lopsided on him and one of his shoelaces had become untied during his walk up the stairs.
“Your shoe.” Sherlock pointed to his left foot. John looked down.
“Oh. Yeah, right.” John put the parcel on the floor and crouched down to tie his shoe. When it was knotted again, he glanced up to Sherlock, looking at him expectantly. But Sherlock said nothing and John looked disappointed. “How've you been?” he asked as he moved to his old chair, bringing the parcel with him, this time placing it on the ground beside his chair.
Sherlock eyed the parcel with such apprehension as if scared what was inside would attack him. The parcel in question was a carrier. A baby carrier with a blanket draped over it, allowing the infant to think it was night, and keeping Sherlock from seeing it. Her. It was a her.
“Fine.”
John leaned over and gently pulled the blanket back and with utmost care, pulled the infant from her carrier and into his arms. She was swaddled in blankets and the only thing showing was her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her chubby lips were pulled into a frown.
“Do you want to hold – ?”
Sherlock pulled a face. “No.” With any luck he'd drop her.
“Right.” John pulled the blanket back to reveal one of her tiny, delicate hands. All the bones were there, all tendons and veins where they needed to be. Sherlock took a moment to appreciate just how perfectly made she was. Just how two cells coming together to create something as complicated as her. John pressed his index finger to her palm and she instinctively held onto it. She whined and shrugged her shoulders before settling herself into her blankets again. “This is Eleanor. Eleanor Elizabeth Watson.”
Sherlock stared at the child, taking in what he could. Blonde scratches of hair covered her head, and although he couldn't see her eyes, he knew they were blue. Her delicate nose was John's and her lips were Mary's.
“How are you adjusting to parenthood?”
John smiled as he stared lovingly at his child. “Good. Well not good. She's been waking us up in the middle of the night for feedings. Haven't got a good night's sleep in ages. And changing nappies is a bit of a nightmare. I didn't realise that --” John cut himself off, realising it was true: when becoming a parent talking about your child's poop was normal. But he decided Sherlock didn't need to know those details. “I just love her so much.”
“Hmm. And how's Mary?”
“Fine. Good. Recovering. Taking it easy,” John replied. “Can't blame her though. The birth was rough on her. I can only imagine what she's going through.”
“I'm sure.”
“But Eleanor's doing well. Eating a lot and growing like a weed. She's grown so much already. Every day she looks a bit different, a bit older than before.” Eleanor opened her eyes and whimpered. “Are you sure you don't want to hold her?”
“Quite sure.”
John couldn't hide his disappointment. He was so excited to have Eleanor in his life and he had hoped Sherlock would have shared that excitement. Or at least tried to. It wouldn't be that hard to fake a smile and hold the baby for a few minutes at least.
“Any new cases?” John asked quietly, feeling the need to keep a conversation going.
Sherlock dismissively waved his hand. “A few. Nothing too interesting, but they keep me busy. Keep me out of trouble.”
“Trouble can't keep its hands off of you,” John teased as he glanced to the ceiling, remembering his old bedroom was just on the floor above. When he left the flat after Sherlock's death, the bedroom was empty and John wondered if it had stayed empty all this time or if Sherlock was using it for something. Maybe to house extra experiments. “Are you going to get a new flatmate?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
“So you can afford the rent on your own?” John asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Don't you get lonely? Want someone to talk to? A friend, maybe?” he went on. “A ... a good friend? A girlfriend, maybe? Or ... or a--”
“I'm quite fine on my own,” Sherlock said, raising his hand to get John to stop talking. “I can take care of myself, and I don't need anyone. I work best alone.”
John nodded. “Right.” Eleanor whimpered, then began to cry, balling her tiny hands into fists. She kicked and fussed and John held her against his chest, resting her head on his shoulder, trying to shush her. But the baby continued to cry, refusing to quiet down. "What is it, love?" he cooed, rubbing her back, gently rocking her from side to side. John tried bouncing her, shushing her, but the baby's cries only grew louder and louder.
Soon enough John realised what the problem was.
“She needs her nappy changed,” he said bashfully. “Mind if I --?” In her carrier was her changing mat and an extra nappy.
“Please.”
John grabbed the mat, nappy, and a few baby wipes from the carrier and took Eleanor to the bathroom. And just like that, Sherlock was alone again. The baby still fussed and Sherlock could hear her whines from the bathroom and John's gentle voice still trying to comfort her.
As he waited for John's return, he began to think of what to do with John's room. It had stayed empty since he had left. By now there ought to be a few layers of dust all over the place, but it was wasted space. Perhaps he could find himself a new flatmate. A replacement John. Someone who could accompany him with his cases, someone he could talk to, someone to keep him company.
Then Sherlock scoffed at his own thought. No one could replace John. No one was like him. And John wouldn't move back into the flat with him even if he asked. Not when he had a child now. John had settled down, found himself a wife and started a family. Those were all the things a life with Sherlock wouldn't give him. The flat was no place to raise a child and Sherlock couldn't even give him a child. And Sherlock would make a terrible parent.
All the things John valued in life were given to him by someone else. It hurt to realise that and hurt even more to accept that. John was happy with Mary. And it would be selfish of Sherlock to try and take any of that happiness away.
“There we are!” John said as he brought Eleanor back into the living room, resuming his chair. The changing mat was folded up again and tucked back into the carrier. Eleanor sucked on a patch of her blanket that neared her mouth. She was probably getting hungry and John didn't have extra bottles with him. If she didn't get fed soon, she'd start to fuss again.
Slowly and carefully he began to place Eleanor back into her carrier, deciding it was time to go. Sherlock didn't show any interest in the baby anyway. When she settled in, Sherlock spoke.
“I want to hold her.”
“Really?”
John took Eleanor from her carrier and gently placed her in Sherlock's arms, making sure he was supporting her head properly. It took him a moment to figure out how to hold her, how to make her feel safe and secure in his arms without holding her too tight.
Eleanor stared up at Sherlock with her wide blue eyes. She didn't seem all that concerned to be held by a stranger, not when she still had her blanket to suck on.
Sherlock gazed at her, taking in every feature. Her nose, her lips, her soft skin. Eleanor seemed less interested in Sherlock by the minute and soon drifted off to sleep, the blanket still in her mouth.
“She's beautiful, John,” Sherlock said quietly.
“Yeah.” John couldn't hide his proud smile.
“I'm sure she'll make you and Mary very happy.”
John nodded. “She already does. We love her to bits.”
Sherlock had enough and motioned for John to take the baby. With slow and gentle care, John took her from Sherlock's arms and placed her back into her carrier without waking her. A line of drool was dripping from her open mouth and John wiped it away with her blanket.
When he was sure Eleanor was in securely, he stood up, careful not to swing the carrier too much as he moved. “We should get going. Before she gets hungry.” John made his way to the door and looked back to Sherlock's chair, expecting him to still be seated there. But to his surprise, Sherlock was standing directly behind him.
“Give Mary my regards.”
John nodded, unsure how to leave. Part of him didn't want to leave at all. The flat still felt like his home and he wanted to find some excuse to stay the night, but he couldn't think of one when he had a baby to look after. And Mary would worry if he stayed out too late.
Sherlock offered his hand and John awkwardly shook it. “I'll see you around then,” John said with a nod as he gingerly walked down the stairs. Eleanor slept soundly.
Sherlock gave a small nod as he closed the door and went back to his seat. Back to his seat in his lonely, empty flat.