Work Text:
London had been raining for three straight days.
The ceiling in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street had finally started leaking.
John Watson stood beneath it holding a saucepan, staring at the rest of his household with profound despair.
Sherlock Holmes was casually dismantling a bomb at the dining table.
Jim Moriarty was teaching their seven-year-old child how to bypass the school’s security cameras.
Watson was the only person in the flat who currently looked employable.
⸻
“Jim,” Watson said tiredly, “stop teaching the child crime.”
Moriarty didn’t even look up.
“Doctor, this is digital literacy.”
“A seven-year-old does not need to learn how to hack the school system.”
“And how exactly is he supposed to survive modern society otherwise?”
Sherlock spoke without looking up from the bomb.
“The password security was pathetic anyway. I estimate the school servers would collapse within three minutes.”
“Sherlock, stop helping.”
The child raised a hand politely.
“I already got in once.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Watson turned very slowly.
“You what?”
The child blinked innocently.
“Jim said truly intelligent people should familiarise themselves with system vulnerabilities early.”
Moriarty looked emotional.
“You see? He’s gifted.”
“DO EITHER OF YOU POSSESS EVEN BASIC LEGAL AWARENESS?”
Sherlock finally glanced up.
“John, yesterday you were giving emotional counselling to a member of organised crime.”
“That was different!”
“Conceptually identical.”
⸻
The doorbell rang.
Mrs Hudson stormed into the kitchen looking approximately ten seconds away from cardiac arrest.
“SHERLOCK HOLMES!”
Everyone looked up.
“The school is here!”
Watson froze.
“…The school?”
Mrs Hudson inhaled deeply.
“Today is parent-teacher conference day.”
Silence descended upon 221B like divine judgement.
Moriarty slowly checked the calendar.
Sherlock stopped dismantling the bomb.
Only the child looked delighted.
“Oh good! My teacher says I’m very creative!”
Watson looked ready to walk directly into the Thames.
“WHY DID NOBODY TELL ME THERE WAS A PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE TODAY?!”
“I assumed Jim remembered,” Sherlock said.
“I assumed Sherly remembered,” Moriarty replied.
“WHY AM I THE ONLY PERSON IN THIS HOUSEHOLD WHO UNDERSTANDS CIVILISED SOCIETY?!”
⸻
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a small London primary school.
Other families looked normal.
* Parents smiling politely.
* Sensible clothing.
* Emotional stability.
The Baker Street family looked like a government watchlist.
Sherlock arrived in a long black coat looking as though he was attending a politically motivated assassination.
Moriarty wore sunglasses indoors like the head of an international crime syndicate.
Watson walked between them with the exhausted expression of a kindergarten teacher trying to prevent war crimes.
⸻
The teacher smiled nervously.
“So… which one of you is the legal guardian?”
All three men answered simultaneously.
“I am.”
The teacher visibly reconsidered several life choices.
⸻
The meeting began.
“Your child is very intelligent,” the teacher said carefully.
Watson brightened immediately.
“Really?”
“Yes, however…”
Her voice became increasingly fragile.
“He wrote in his school essay that his life goal is to ‘establish an efficient underground intelligence network.’”
Watson closed his eyes.
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.
“Clear structure. Strong ambition.”
Moriarty looked proud.
“It’s important for children to dream big.”
“PLEASE STOP REVIEWING THE ESSAY LIKE THIS IS A JOB INTERVIEW.”
⸻
The teacher shakily turned another page.
“And under ‘future career aspirations,’ he wrote…”
She paused.
“‘I want to become a consulting criminal like my fathers.’”
The entire classroom became silent.
Watson briefly left his physical body.
“Technically,” Sherlock corrected calmly, “I am a consulting detective.”
“And I’m an artist,” Moriarty added.
“YOU TWO NEED TO STOP CONTRIBUTING.”
⸻
The teacher now looked spiritually damaged.
Unfortunately, the Baker Street family was still taking this very seriously.
⸻
“On the positive side,” she continued weakly, “your child socialises very well.”
Watson immediately looked hopeful again.
“Oh thank God.”
“Yes. Mostly because nobody dares to upset him.”
“…Why?”
The teacher hesitated.
“Last week another student stole his lunch.”
Watson sighed with relief.
“That’s normal childhood conflict—”
“And your child calmly informed him that ‘Jim usually deals with people like this.’”
Watson stared into the void.
Moriarty looked genuinely touched.
“He finally understands my parenting philosophy.”
“The phrasing could be refined slightly,” Sherlock admitted.
“WHY ARE YOU BOTH PROUD OF THIS?!”
⸻
“There was also an incident during mathematics class,” the teacher continued.
Watson already looked frightened.
“What did he say this time?”
She checked her notes.
“He told another student:
‘Sherlock says people without basic logic skills often struggle unnecessarily in life.’”
Sherlock nodded immediately.
“That is objectively true.”
“SHERLOCK STOP TURNING OUR CHILD INTO A REDDIT USER.”
⸻
The truly terrifying part was that the child genuinely believed his upbringing was normal.
Other children drew:
* cats,
* rainbows,
* happy family dinners.
Their child had drawn:
The Organisational Structure of London’s Criminal Underworld
Complete with emergency escape routes from Scotland Yard.
⸻
The teacher’s voice trembled.
“Why… does this diagram include police evacuation patterns?”
The child looked confused.
“Sherlock says all successful operations require exit strategies.”
Watson looked close to death.
“Genius,” Moriarty whispered proudly.
“Excellent observational skills,” Sherlock agreed.
“PLEASE STOP ENCOURAGING HIM.”
⸻
At the end of the conference, the teacher looked approximately fifteen years older.
“Overall,” she said weakly, “your child is extremely polite.”
Watson nearly burst into tears of relief.
“Thank you.”
“And at least he never gets into physical fights.”
Watson visibly relaxed.
Then the teacher added:
“He says:
‘Truly intelligent people never need to do violence personally.’”
The hallway fell silent.
⸻
On the walk home, London continued raining endlessly.
Watson carried the conference folder like evidence in a criminal trial.
Sherlock walked beside him with his hands in his coat pockets looking vaguely illegal.
Moriarty looked like he’d just returned from a delightful holiday.
The child skipped happily ahead of them.
Finally, Watson sighed.
“I think our parenting methods may be deeply flawed.”
“No,” Sherlock replied calmly. “His reasoning skills are significantly above average.”
“And emotionally he’s very resilient,” Moriarty added proudly.
“THAT IS NOT THE ISSUE.”
The child suddenly looked up.
“Doctor Dad?”
Watson looked exhausted already.
“Yes?”
“If I start my own organisation one day… would you support me?”
Everything stopped.
Sherlock paused walking.
Moriarty looked visibly excited.
Even London’s rain seemed to hesitate.
Watson crouched down slowly and looked the child in the eye.
“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “what matters isn’t what you do.”
Sherlock immediately closed his eyes.
Moriarty started laughing before Watson even finished.
“What matters,” Watson continued sincerely, “is whether you have a kind heart.”
Sherlock looked at him for a very long time.
Then sighed deeply.
“John,” he said quietly,
“you are by far the most dangerous person in this family.”
⸻
Back at 221B, Watson immediately announced a “serious family meeting.”
Sherlock cleaned a handgun.
Moriarty spun a knife around his fingers.
The child worked diligently on something titled:
Management Principles for Underground Organisations
Watson was the only person visibly attempting rehabilitation.
“We need to discuss our parenting.”
“He’s already intellectually superior to most adults in London,” Sherlock said.
“That is NOT the point.”
“I think he’s simply creatively gifted,” Moriarty offered.
“Jim, yesterday he founded a secret intelligence club at school.”
“Leadership qualities,” Moriarty said proudly.
“Excellent organisational instincts,” Sherlock agreed.
“WHY AM I THE ONLY PERSON HERE EXPERIENCING FEAR?!”
⸻
The child raised his hand politely.
“Doctor Dad?”
“Yes?”
“If I create an organisation someday… can I call it 221B?”
Sherlock finally looked up.
“Tacky.”
“I like it,” Moriarty said immediately.
Watson developed a migraine.
⸻
The worst part was that the child had started imitating all three of them.
When copying Sherlock, he would suddenly point at people and announce:
“You lied earlier because your left shoelace is tied incorrectly.”
When copying Moriarty, he would appear silently in the kitchen at 2 AM giggling ominously in complete darkness.
Watson nearly died every single time.
But copying Watson was somehow the most alarming.
Because the child would sincerely attempt to emotionally support everyone.
One day Lestrade arrived at Baker Street to arrest somebody.
Instead, the child handed him tea and said kindly:
“Greg, true justice cannot always rely entirely on the legal system.”
Lestrade froze.
Sherlock slowly lowered his newspaper.
Moriarty laughed so hard he physically rolled off the sofa.
Watson looked horrified.
“…Oh God. That’s my exact tone of voice.”
⸻
The truly disturbing thing was that the child was incredibly popular.
Teachers adored him.
Neighbours described him as “wonderfully polite.”
Scotland Yard quietly suspected he would one day become a criminal mastermind.
⸻
Late one night, 221B was unusually peaceful.
No explosions.
No police.
No murder investigations.
No active plots against Parliament.
London rain tapped softly against the windows.
Sherlock read quietly on the sofa.
Moriarty played with a lighter.
Watson tucked the child into bed.
The child looked sleepy.
“Doctor Dad?”
“Yes?”
“…Are we bad people?”
The flat suddenly became very quiet.
Sherlock slowly looked up.
Moriarty stopped moving.
Watson thought for a very long time.
Then gently brushed the child’s hair back.
“No,” he said softly.
“Then what are we?”
Watson glanced toward:
* Sherlock Holmes,
* Jim Moriarty,
* and the complete disaster they somehow called home.
Finally, he sighed.
“We’re just…”
He paused.
“…difficult to explain to schools.”
Sherlock looked genuinely impressed.
“That,” he admitted,
“may be the most accurate deduction you’ve made all year.”
⸻
The following Christmas, the school demanded a family photograph.
Sherlock refused immediately.
“I don’t participate in organised photography.”
“The last time I was photographed I became internationally wanted,” Moriarty added.
“This is for school,” Watson said through clenched teeth.
The child looked thrilled.
“I get to wear my little suit!”
⸻
At the photography studio, every other family looked warm and wholesome.
The Baker Street family looked like a hostage negotiation.
Sherlock resembled a widowed aristocrat at a funeral.
Moriarty looked moments away from kidnapping the photographer.
Watson looked spiritually exhausted.
The photographer smiled nervously.
“Could everyone stand a little closer together?”
“Don’t touch me,” Sherlock replied instantly.
“Sherly,” Moriarty sighed dramatically, “you’re giving divorced father energy.”
“Jim stop provoking him.”
“Can I hold the toy gun?” the child asked.
“No.”
“That’s not a toy gun,” Sherlock corrected.
The photographer nearly resigned on the spot.
⸻
The photoshoot collapsed rapidly.
Moriarty deliberately made ridiculous faces.
Sherlock started analysing the studio’s security blind spots.
Watson desperately straightened everyone’s collars while questioning every decision he’d ever made.
The child had the time of his life.
Finally, the photographer snapped:
“CAN YOU PLEASE ACT LIKE A NORMAL FAMILY FOR FIVE SECONDS?!”
The room fell silent.
Then the child quietly reached out.
One hand grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve.
The other grabbed Moriarty’s hand.
He looked up and said softly:
“Doctor Dad says family photos should look happy.”
Everything suddenly became still.
Sherlock looked down at the child.
For once, Moriarty stopped joking.
Watson suddenly felt something warm in his chest.
Because this family was ridiculous.
A high-functioning sociopathic detective.
A criminal lunatic.
An aggressively compassionate doctor.
And one child raised almost entirely through accidental criminal education.
By all reasonable standards, none of this should have worked.
And yet somehow—
when the camera finally flashed—
Sherlock frowned slightly.
Moriarty grinned like he was about to commit arson.
The child threw up a peace sign.
And Watson stood in the middle of all of them looking like an underpaid kindergarten teacher desperately maintaining world peace.
Years later, the teacher would still occasionally look back at that photograph in complete disbelief.
Because somehow—
against all logic—
the four people in it looked genuinely happy.
🌧️🌙🌝