|A Baby in 221B
Author: TheDimensionOfWords PM
Written between seasons 1 and 2. What happens when Sherlock finds himself responsible for a baby? This question popped into my head and became this. Should be considered AU.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Friendship/Family - Sherlock H. & John W. - Words: 1,714 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 6 - Follows: 4 - Published: 11-21-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8723968
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
John Watson looked up as his flat mate walked in the door, after going for a "walk" (a.k.a. checking up on London and receiving any new information from his own spy net work). When he saw what was in the tall man's arms his mouth fell open at the same time his body shot up. Sherlock seemed not to quiet know what to do with the baby that was bundled up in dirty rages, its wide brown eyes locked with his striking gray-blue ones.
"Sherlock," I croaked, finally finding my voice after just staring at the two of them, who seemed in turn to be locked in some sort of staring contest. "Sherlock, why… where… how did you get a baby?"
"She's an orphan," he said his deep voice. "Her mother just died. Good woman, always gathered the best information. Illegal immigrant though, with cancer if I read the signs right, and a baby on the way when I met her. This is the baby." His eyes hadn't left the baby's through this whole speech.
I was rendered speechless again, but I walked toward him and gently touched the baby's cheek, she turned her gaze on me. I couldn't help but smile at her, she was tiny and thin, but not too unhealthily so. She was beautiful and she smiled back at me, lifting a tiny hand to touch my face.
I held out my arms, and looked up at Sherlock. "May I?" He just stared at me for a moment, an unreadable look on his face, before he nodded and passed the baby to me. I smiled down at her and walked her closer to the heater and out of the drafty door way, while Sherlock disappeared off some where.
He returned momentarily with a fresh blanket (which I recognized as mine, but it didn't matter at the moment) and a small square of clean cloth. He laid the blanket and little cloth on the couch, and then stalked over to his chair and sat down, taking out his violin. I looked at what he set up for a moment before putting two and two together. I walked over and gently lay the little girl down and took off her dirty rage of a blanket. Underneath she just had a cloth diaper, obviously also soiled. As a doctor I know the basics of child care, and I soon had her tidied up and warm, snuggled close to my chest.
I went and sat across from Sherlock in my own chair and he started playing his violin, correctly and softly (the first time I had ever hear him play so). I gently rocked my arms in time with his playing and the tired little girl soon fell fast asleep.
Once it was obvious she was going to stay that way, Sherlock paused in his playing and looked at me expectantly.
"She will be hungry when she wakes up, and lord knows she needs some good food," I whispered to him. "She will also need a fresh nappy and clothes would be nice too…"
He nodded, then cocked his head to the side. I could hear the sounds of Mrs. Hudson entering her own flat. Sherlock and I locked eyes as the same thought came to us and I nodded. He gracefully stood up and swooped out the door, lightly making his way down the stairs. I couldn't make out the conversation except for the very loud exclamation of "A baby!?" from the dear landlady-not-house-keeper. After a short while I heard the sound of two sets of feet ascending the stairs, and looked up to smile at the older woman who came in just before Sherlock, and immediately her eyes went to me and the baby in my arms.
"Oh my," she breathed and stepped closer to get better look at the little girl. She then got a look that spoke of business and looked at the baby more closely. "I'd say she is size six nappies, and would fit in six month cloths, though she is most likely about eight or nine months old. Poor little thing, half-starved. Now Sherlock, you will come with me and we will buy all the supplies this little angel needs, while John, you stay here and watch her." For a woman who had never had a child of her own, she sure knew what to do. She patted my cheek and then grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him down stairs and out the door. I settled back in my chair and watched the little girl dream, wondering if there was anyway in hell we could keep her (I'm confident that between myself, Mrs. Hudson, and maybe even Sherlock that we could take care of her right), and if we could, how that would change our lives…
Inspector Lestrade had seen many odd things when calling on the flat of Sherlock Holmes over the years. Explosion marks, pyramids of books and lab equipment, bullet holes, the odd human or animal body part. But when he barged in (he learned Holmes didn't like him to knock, anything to save time and get on a case) and found the consulting detective lying on the couch (which in it self wasn't new) talking away to a little baby who lay nestled on his chest. Its eyes open and it seemed to be listening to the babbling of the man holding it. And a her by the look of the cloths.
His first thought was that Holmes was some how harming the baby (maybe not on purpose, just out of his odd type of carelessness). But then he remembers that Dr. Watson wouldn't let that happen, and neither would the landlady. But this made the baby's existence even more baffling. How and why would the great Sherlock Holmes have a baby? And one that was most likely not his own, by her looks.
The sentence "Is there something I can help you with Inspector?" broke him from his staring, and he turned to find a tired looking Watson making his way from the kitchen, a bottle in hand. Sherlock stopped talking and stared up at Lestrade with his piercing eyes, before shifting the baby and standing. Watson stepped forward to gently take her from him, and started feeding her. "Toast in the kitchen, grab some before you run off. I'll see if Mrs. Hudson can watch after Celia and be right back." And with that he set the now finished bottle on the nearest surface, and put the baby to his shoulder, gently burping her as he headed down the stairs.
"A not so urgent case, one that time does no harm too, but you want me to look over it anyway," Sherlock summed up as he headed for the kitchen and the toast. "What is it about?"
"Why do you have a baby?" was what instead blurted forth from Detective Lestrade's mouth. Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh and rolled his eyes as he took a bite out of a piece of jam covered toast. This was the first time Lestrade had really seen the detective ingest food, but that fact was lost beside the baby's existence. "Sherlock…"
"A friend of mine passed away and left the child in my care. John and Mrs. Hudson are helping me take care of her," he said simply, grabbing and gulping down another piece of toast. "Now, on to the case?"
Watson was back and holding Holmes' coat out to him as he slipped on his own. Lestrade just shook his head, vowing mentally to look into this more, before having to put the baby in the back of his mind and more on to work. He followed the two men out of the house to his waiting cab, filling them in about the latest murder.
The three-year-old looked over at the three people she shared her house with. She had a look of both determination and satisfaction mixed in a way that should never be seen on a girl so young. She continued where she left off, giving her conclusion "And thus I conclude that it was not Uncle John but Father who ate the very last of Auntie Hudson's cookies."
Sherlock nodded and beamed, not at all looking guilty about his crime, but very proud about the girl in front of him. John shook his head bemusement, but let out an internal sigh of relief that he would not be facing Mrs. Hudson's wrath. Mrs. Hudson herself gave up and laughed long and loud, till tears rolled down her face.
And that was when Celia Holmes solved her very first mystery.
John Watson walked into a disturbingly quiet house, well at least disturbingly quiet if you lived with two Holmes'. He looked around, but his eyes soon fell on the couch where the before mentioned people sat, back to back, eyes closed. The 32-year-old man and 6-year-old girl stated at the same time a loud, "Bored!" Before settling down into a disturbing quiet, like twin bombs waiting to go off.
"Well then, maybe two bored people could help me put away the groceries?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. His only reply was another shouted, "Bored!" so he sighed, and contented himself with his fate.
"The Earth goes round the sun dear, everyone knows that," except you father, I added in my own thoughts. This was probably why the incredibly bright nine-year-old Celia didn't know this either. But instead of just throwing the idea off as useless, as Sherlock had done, she became fascinated. I saw this light in her eyes, and she wandered over to my laptop. Flipped it open, she quickly hacked my security code and set about mastering all she could about the solar system that the internet would give her.
A/N: I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with this fic. I thought it best to go on and post it, and see what others think. Thanks for reading! :)