Chapter Text
“Thanks. I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't an emergency.”
You were the last person I contacted went unsaid.
John dropped the diaper bag down on the floor and ever so gently placed Eleanor's carrier on the ground, the baby in question tucked in a few layers of blankets, sound asleep. Sherlock didn't look up from the Bunsen burner's flame. John cleared his throat. “Everything you'll need is in the diaper bag. Food, toys, clean clothes, her soother...” he trailed off when he realised Sherlock was still ignoring him. Maybe leaving Eleanor here was a bad idea. Knowing Sherlock, he'd forget she was even here and take off, leaving her behind. But what choice did he have? “I shouldn't be long. Any problems, just text me, alright?” Silence. “Sherlock!”
“Yes. Yes, fine,” was the monotone response.
When John left the baby continued to be ignored. Sherlock adjusted the burner's flame, putting his mind back to the experiment at hand. The flat was filled with silence. Time passed. But Sherlock didn't worry about the passage of time. Time didn't matter to him. Not when he lacked a regular sleep schedule and had Mrs Hudson fix him meals. As far as he was concerned, time simply didn't exist.
But to Eleanor, time was very important. Her life had a specific rhythm to it. She knew exactly when her feedings would happen, knew precisely when she'd be put down for her nap. Timing was important in her life. She was more exact than any clock, and right now she knew without a doubt in her mind that it was dinner time. Normally, by this time, she'd be held in her parent's arms and given a warm bottle of milk to drink. She'd get her back rubbed and a gentle voice would speak to her. But none of this happened. She was still in her carrier. No one was cuddling her. And she most certainly knew she wasn't drinking a delicious bottle of milk.
The cry Eleanor gave made Sherlock jump, nearly knocking over the Bunsen burner. The wail took him out of his trance and that was when he realised the flat was already dark. The day had gone by. Eleanor was still here. John was still gone. To the best of his ability, he ignored the child, trying to focus on his work, but her cries grew louder and she began to unhappily kick her legs. Her voice was shrill and filled the room with head-throbbing noise, noise, noise. And against all possibility, her voice grew louder and hit an octave higher and Sherlock was certain his own head would burst from the sound and there was just noise and he couldn't even see straight or think clearly, but the wail continued until –
“Shut up!”
The noise immediately stopped. The baby stared at Sherlock, a look of sheer surprise plastered to her tiny face. She began to gnaw on her fingers, deciding what to do next. That decision however, didn't take long to make. The cries began again, just as shrill as before and Sherlock couldn't ignore it. Couldn't retreat to his mind palace to find some quiet. So he ventured over to the diaper bag and pulled out a bottle. It was wrapped in a towel, cuddled up against other bottles to keep warm. Sherlock sat beside the carrier and pressed the bottle against Eleanor's slightly parted lips. She latched on, but when Sherlock released his grip from the bottle, it fell from Eleanor's lips. She gave a frustrated squeal. Sherlock tried again, but the bottle kept slipping away from her weak grip. Even when he placed her hands against the bottle, trying to encourage her to hold it, it didn't work. Eleanor began to wail again and Sherlock flinched as the noise struck him like a slap to the face.
New plan. What would John do? John could fix this.
Sherlock unbuckled Eleanor from her carrier and placed his hands under her armpits and lifted. She was heavier than expected and her moving around made it difficult to keep a firm grip on her.
Watch the head. Always watch the head.
Sherlock sat on his chair and awkwardly held Eleanor in his arms. Then he pressed the bottle to her lips, this time holding it upright for her. She quieted and began drinking, finally content. As she sucked on the bottle, her eyes latched onto his. Her large blue eyes, filled with curiosity, always taking in the world around her. She was pretty. She checked all the boxes of looking cute: chubby cheeks, rosy cheeks, big eyes, soft lips, fair thin hair. She looked healthy and obviously had a good appetite. She was probably the definition of a perfect baby.
As she continued on the bottle, Sherlock gently caressed his finger across her cheek. This was the reason John had decided to stay with Mary. Had there been no baby, no pregnancy, he would have left Mary. But the chance to have what he always wanted – a family – made him see past all the wrongs she had done.
And a family was something Sherlock could never offer him.
Their baby would have a head of dark curls and a knack for getting into mischief. A stubborn baby who would keep them up for endless nights. A fighter. A soldier. But that baby, that image of all the perfect features of Sherlock and John combined was impossible. It was pointless to even think of such things.
“It's your fault, isn't it?” he whispered to the child as she finished the bottle. “If you were never here. If you were never born I'd have...” he trailed off. It was pointless to blame a baby for simply existing. To have her carry this fault on her shoulders before she could even sit up on her own. To hate a child who did nothing wrong. And if anyone had done something wrong, it was Sherlock. If only he had said something before the marriage. Had told John he wasn't dead. Had prevented him from meeting Mary, this whole situation would have been reversed. But he didn't, did he?
And it was pointless to think about things you should have done.