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The best and the worst
Notes: I...have nothing to say for myself. When I read this prompt my thought was "God no!" and then I went running, and then I wrote 11 pages, loving every minute of it. I liked it so much, that had it not been so silly it'd gone straight through to headcanon.
hey_khaleesi has translated this into Italian.
Summary: When talking about violin playing at odd hours and going days without speaking Sherlock just happen to forget mentioning he had custody of his 15-year-old son every second weekend.
***
“What are your plans for this weekend?” Sherlock asked without looking up from the piles of newspaper clippings he was either sorting or just shuffling around – John couldn’t tell and had stopped trying to figure it out.
“Pretend it’s a difference between weekdays and weekends when you’re unemployed?” John suggested after a quick glare at Sherlock, “Why? Lestrade’s not letting you in to the Yard and you need me to get something?”
“Tss….I’d be in and out of there faster than you, with or without permission to enter,” Sherlock said with a huff, “I just wondered if you’d be willing to lend your bed to Daniel.”
“To who?”
“Daniel,” Sherlock looked up with his typical how-can-you-not-know-what-I’m-talking-about look, but with the insight that he shared a flat with one of the planets close to 7 billion idiots he continued, “My son.”
“Excuse me? Your what?” John was sure he had misheard Sherlock.
“My son,” Sherlock repeated so clearly John couldn’t doubt it.
“You have a…you’ve a son?” John was shocked. How could this not have come up earlier? Or, how was Sherlock even capable of procreation? Somehow, John had seen Sherlock as a being without any type of sexuality – like he was above basic human needs and wants.
“Yes, a 15-year-old son,” Sherlock apparently decided that the paper clippings weren’t worth his time anymore and started to place them back in the boxes he had removed them from in the first place as he continued to explain to the stunned John, “I have him every other weekend, he lives with his mother in Ipswich usually. I had him every weekend for a while, but it didn’t go so well…work and it’s a pretty long trip and well…it didn’t really work. His mother and I don’t get along anymore.”
John would probably have jumped on the fact that not only was Sherlock a father, but he was the father of a teenager, if Sherlock hadn’t sounded so guilty about the arrangement he now had with his son.
“You have questions again,” Sherlock told John and tilted his head slightly. John smiled, it was an understatement; his head was exploding with questions and he couldn’t decide where to start so he just kept staring at Sherlock, as if he saw him for the very first time.
“So many questions,” John admitted with a weak smile, “But yeah, maybe he can have my bed? Why not your bed?”
“He made it perfectly clear some years ago that he didn’t want my bed,” Sherlock said, “But don’t worry about it, he can sleep on the sofa. That’s what he usually does…Never really had a place that was big enough for two beds.”
John looked around their flat; most of the things in here were Sherlock’s, most of them looked at least 5 years old, most of them was not at all suitable for an environment where a child should grow up.
“Sherlock,” John said with a soft smile, “Let’s go to IKEA, eat some meatballs and buy your son a bed.”
“Meatballs….Not one of Scandinavia’s best exports,” Sherlock said with a frown, but started to search for his scarf and coat anyway. John could swear the hint of annoyance in Sherlock’s voice was not because of the suggestion of having Swedish cuisine but because it had been John and not he who had realised they could just buy a spare bed.
The days leading up to Friday was filled with equal amounts of anticipation and fear, at least for John. What Sherlock thought was just as hard to tell as ever. They wrapped up a case concerning a missing diary and some strange e-mails and without even thinking about it John found himself childproofing the flat. Probably silly since the boy obviously had survived 15 years in similar environments; but a man who couldn’t bother to eat or sleep himself, what kind of role model was he to a child?
John found out so many interesting things during these days; Daniel was the result of a broken condom and two scared teenagers who tiptoed around the truth until it was too late to have an abortion. Sherlock and Joyce – Daniel’s mother – had been together for three months when Joyce got pregnant and they had stayed together until Daniel had been eighteen days (giving the conversation at Angelo’s a whole new meaning).
To John’s surprise, Sherlock had made sure they had proper food at home. Not to mention that the remaining traces from the foot-in-the-sink incident magically disappeared on Friday morning and the lock finally went on the chemical cabinet. All John was left to do was vacuuming. John was sincerely impressed with Sherlock and so, so curious to meet Daniel.
Just before seven on Friday Sherlock’s phone rang and sure, John had only been living with the man for one and a half week but he had still never seen him answer the phone so quickly.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered and went to the window, “Yes, you turn right, it’s Baker Street you see there…yes, right again when you reach it. No, you don’t need a cab…it’s not even 200 meters. No….Come on!....Yes, 221 b. See you soon.”
He hung up and shook his head, looking vaguely annoyed but somehow more nervous and happy than John had ever seen him.
“Kids….He wanted to take a cab from the station.” Sherlock said, giving John a telling look, “Let’s go down and make sure he actually gets here.”
John felt a bit surprised, or shocked, or just taken by his first look at Sherlock as a father. It had just sounded so…not like Sherlock. Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs when John shook the astonishment enough to be able to get up from the chair and follow.
“Mrs Hudson, he’s almost here now!” Sherlock called out to their landlady just moments before he opened the door to wait for his son outside. Both John and Mrs Hudson were quick to follow.
“There he is,” Sherlock said pointing at a gangly, young man and then he raised his hand to wave at the boy. The smile on Sherlock’s face was happy, and almost insecure, according to John.
The boy walking down the other side of Baker Street – without answering the wave – was a blond version of what John imagined Sherlock would have looked like at 15. It was almost creepy; they moved the same way, had the same soft curls and the same elegant features. Except the colour pallet, John couldn’t see Joyce contributing with anything. Well, maybe the clothing style, jeans and a t-shirt was not something John thought Sherlock would pick out.
“Hi,” Daniel said as he reached them and he and Sherlock shared an awkward hug, John recognised it as the same type of hug he’d used to share with his father at that age. Hell, he still shared that sort of hug with his father.
“Daniel, you remember Mrs Hudson, don’t you?” Sherlock introduced as he moved the teenager towards the house.
“Err….” Daniel answered, but to his credit he reached out to shake Mrs Hudson’s hand.
“Sherlock, don’t embarrass the boy, surely he can’t remember me. But my Goodness, you’ve grown. I haven’t seen you since you were this big,” Mrs Hudson twittered, showing a height somewhere between a toddler’s and Daniel’s current one – he was almost as tall as Sherlock.
“Hi Mrs Hudson,” Daniel said properly and Sherlock seemed pleased.
“And this,” Sherlock continued, turning his son towards John, “is Dr John Watson.”
“Hi Daniel,” John managed to force out of his mouth along with a smile and an offered hand.
“Dr Watson,” Daniel greeted and took the hand as he scrutinised John.
“’John’’ll be fine,” John insisted before all of them moved inside; Mrs Hudson to her place and the rest of them upstairs.
“So this is it, what do you think?” Sherlock wondered as Daniel dropped his backpack next to the sofa.
“Better than the one in Heston,” Daniel nodded and placed himself on the sofa in the same manner he had handled the backpack. John took that as approval.
“Feet off sofa or shoes off feet,” Sherlock said and pointed at Daniel’s feet which had been placed on the armrest; before John had the time to say anything Sherlock had turned to him with a look asking John not to mention that this rule had never been enforced at 221 B Baker Street before.
“Whatever,” Daniel rolled his eyes, “It’s my bed, isn’t it?”
“No, actually it is not,” Sherlock said, looking pleased, “We got you a bed.”
“’We’?” Daniel moved his shoes from the sofa, “Dad…please don’t tell me you’re gay with this army bloke.”
There were so many problems with that sentence if you asked John. For starters, hearing Daniel call Sherlock “dad” as if it was the most natural thing in the world (which it probably was) blew his mind! Then, why did everyone always assume they were together? And last, how did he know about his army background? Was he just as observant as his father or had Sherlock informed him about that? The shock factor of Sherlock being in a relationship with John was also a bit disturbing, but John could excuse that – not something he’d wanted to find out about his father either.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock asked his son, picking up the backpack and placing it on a chair instead, “Your very existence is evidence that I’m not gay.”
“Yeah…whatever,” Daniel sounded unconvinced and uninterested, “I’m going out.”
“No you’re not,” Sherlock informed him, blocking the way out of the sitting room by standing in the doorway.
“Yes, I am,” Daniel crossed his arms over his chest and looked up in Sherlock’s face with a lippy expression, “I’m meeting friends.”
“What friends?” Sherlock demanded.
“You don’t know them.”
“What friends?” Sherlock repeated without any sign of room for compromises.
“Friends from school.” Daniel said cocky.
“Really? Friends from Northgate High School are here, in London, on a Friday night?” Sherlock didn’t sound convinced. At all. God, it must be impossible to be Sherlock’s kid; why did Daniel even bother with white lies and bad excuses? Sure, even John could have seen through that story, but still, forget hiding cigarettes, stealing alcohol, making up alibis or just claiming to be somewhere else than one had been.
“Yes. Funny coincident isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” Sherlock had looked more amused when Anderson had been correct at a crime scene, “You’re staying.”
“I hate you!” Daniel half-yelled in Sherlock’s face, “Angela and Simon are having a party tomorrow and I’m stuck in the world’s most boring place and you don’t even let me go out! Why can’t you let me have some fun when you force me here?”
“Because I know exactly what kind of fun 15-year-old boys have in London on Friday nights,” Sherlock said measuring his son with his eyes, “And your mother would kill me if something happens to you.”
“Hypocrite,” Daniel spit out.
“Not just that,” Sherlock said with a stern voice, “Even if I do feel a bit too young to be a grandfather. But it’s dark soon and London’s dangerous.”
“Don’t be such a dick,” Daniel sighed in frustration, “What can possibly happen?”
John could see how a long string of answers danced passed Sherlock, probably every single murder case he had ever worked on. There was true worry behind that determined face.
“I’m going to show you your room now,” Sherlock said in a clam voice, stating that this conversation was over. “You’re mother said you had some homework to do, so you might as well get an early start.”
“You can’t tell me what to do!” Daniel stamped the floor.
“Take your backpack,” Sherlock said as if he hadn’t heard him and, to John’s surprise, Daniel obeyed. They disappeared upstairs and the door to Sherlock’s bedroom was slammed shut three times, John couldn’t figure that out. Well, he had trouble figuring anything of this out.
“So that’s Daniel,” Sherlock said moments later when he came down to the sitting room again.
“Charming,” John said with a smile and Sherlock answered with a similar one and shook his head before falling onto the sofa in very much the same way Daniel had just minutes before. One episode of the Midsomer Murders later – John had the DVD box – Daniel came down stairs again, looking far less cocky.
“Are you done?” Sherlock wondered.
“Yes,” Daniel nodded.
“Do you want med to correct it?” Sherlock continued, holding out a hand, apparently expecting to be handed something.
“No,” Daniel shook his head and continued with a sigh at Sherlock’s gaze, “It’s history, not brain surgery, I think I can handle it.”
“If you say so,” Sherlock nodded, “Be home by midnight.”
“Yea,” Daniel nodded and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“I mean it. Midnight. Baker Street. Be here.”
“I promise dad,” Daniel almost rolled his eyes, “Don’t wait up. Bye John.”
“Ha! You wish!” Sherlock yelled after his son as he disappeared downstairs, “And what ever you do, DON’T TAKE A CAB!”
The door slammed shut and Sherlock sank deep down in the sofa.
“He’s going to be late,” he predicted turning his head to John, “Would it be bad to have Mycroft spying on him?”
“Pretty sure he won’t approve any more than you do,” John said with an amused smirk.
“Stop trying to be cleaver,” Sherlock huffed, but then he smile slightly. It was weird seeing Sherlock smile this often.
Sherlock prediction turned out to be correct. He had placed himself in front of the window ten minutes before midnight and just watched the street outside, but it wasn’t until seventeen minutes past that he actually did something.
“Do you think something has happened?” he asked John – who still watched DCI Barnaby solving crimes – and there was genuine worry in his voice.
“I’m sure he’s just late Sherlock,” John reassured him with a smile, “Have you tried calling him?”
“I’ve texted.”
“Call him; I’m sure he’s close.”
Sherlock went to fetch his phone, worry oozing out of him. It was a bit contagious John must admit even though he was sure nothing had happened to Daniel. Either way, he started to feel a bit guilty for every time he had missed curfews as a kid.
Before Sherlock had dialled his son’s number the door downstairs was unlocked and opened, giving John right; Daniel had been close. Sherlock basically flew down the first flight of stairs to make sure it actually was Daniel.
“Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer the text?” John could hear Sherlock ask in a stern, but hush, voice to not wake Mrs Hudson. What Daniel answered was impossible to make out though.
“You reek of cigarettes,” Sherlock’s hush voice continued to scold the boy as they both made their way up the stairs.
“Piss off,” Daniel asked him as they reached the sitting room floor. Daniel was apparently planning to move up yet another flight of stairs to the bedrooms but Sherlock forced him through the sitting room and into the kitchen.
“Have you been smoking something other than nicotine?” Sherlock asked, turning on the horrible lamps in the kitchen he’d had installed for when he needed extra light for some experiment.
“None of your business,” Daniel stated as Sherlock forced the lamp in his son’s face for a close eye examination.
“Fuck you!” Daniel tried to shove him away and since Sherlock apparently had been satisfied with what he’d seen he allowed it to happen. “You’re such a freak, you know that?!”
“Go to the bedroom,” Sherlock ordered, “And stay there!”
“Are you grounding me?” Daniel wondered.
“As a matter of fact, I am!”
“You can’t do that, you’re not mum,” there was something so victorious in the way he said it that John felt his own heart breaking as if the words had been directed at him and not at Sherlock.
“Watch me,” Sherlock asked in a very controlled voice, “The good thing about parenthood is that it actually is a team sport; she finds out you’re smoking, you’re not coming out again until graduation mister!”
“You’re the worst dad ever! I hate you!” Daniel informed Sherlock again and then he stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the poor door shut again.
“Do you have a spare change of sheets in your room?” Sherlock wondered when he came back into the sitting room after a couple of minutes, “I guess I’ll be sleeping on the sofa tonight, or the next murder Lestrade will be solving is going to be mine.”
John gave Sherlock a concerned look and the permission to enter his room to get some sheets.
The grounding seemed to be affective immediately, whatever Joyce might have to say about it, and Daniel seemed to have accepted that faith. At least until lunch, when the volume of the music coming from Sherlock’s bedroom reached a critical level, making John’s tea vibrate.
“Honestly, how can he listen to that excuse for music?” Sherlock wondered and got up from his computer where he’d been corresponding with Lestrade.
“We can’t all be a fan of London Symphony Orchestra,” John tried to explain with a soft smile.
“They’re like water buffalos with bows compared to the Royal Concertgebouw,” Sherlock muttered before he reached the door to the sitting room and yelled upstairs: “Turn that bloody music down and come down and eat lunch instead!”
The result was even louder music and Sherlock, sighing, went upstairs to deal with the problem hands on. John could hear them arguing, but there were no words to make out and he did wonder what lunch Sherlock wanted Daniel to eat – John was pretty sure nothing had been cooked in the kitchen since they moved in.
“…and there are cold noodles in the one with a green lid.” Sherlock finished a sentence as father and son finally came downstairs again. It took some time for John to understand what they were talking about but when he heard Daniel putting something on a plate and starting the microwave he realised that Sherlock had prepared food for reheating. Either that or Daniel was going to eat ears and eyeballs and John didn’t want to believe that.
“What?” Sherlock asked when he saw John’s surprised face, “The boy has to eat.”
“You’re not going to join him?”
“Apparently I ruin his appetite,” Sherlock frowned slightly and looked towards the kitchen while adding in a louder voice, “But seeing idiots throw themselves off rocks, having their bones pop out of their skin is all fine as dining entertainment.”
“You’re such a wimp dad,” Daniel replied, “Just because you can’t stomach to see some blood and bone pipes.”
John looked between the kitchen and Sherlock, feeling confused and amused. Sherlock would be the last person in the world John would call scared of blood.
“I just don’t think it’s a proper thing to watch or a behaviour to encourage,” Sherlock corrected him.
“Try to connect with the real world dad! Everybody does it.”
John almost expected the “Well if everybody jumped off a bridge”-line from Sherlock, but instead the consulting detective’s phone rang.
“Who was it?” John wondered when Sherlock hung up without even answering.
“Lestrade.”
“Who?” Daniel asked, leaning against the wall with his plat in his hand.
“Don’t eat standing up,” Sherlock sighed irritated, “And Lestrade is a friend from work.”
A friend from work? That was a new description of the DI John had never heard.
“Simon’s dad works for Google you know,” Daniel informed as he sat down on the sofa with his plate.
“So you’ve told me,” Sherlock muttered as he sent a text.
“And Collin’s is a computer engineer.”
“How wonderful for him,” Sherlock said and tossed his phone to John when it buzzed again, “What do you think?”
“About Collin’s dad?”
“No, about Lestrade’s answer of course,” Sherlock said with a hint of frustration.
“We didn’t forget to bring him those photos,” John stated after reading the text, tossing the phone back.
“Thought so,” Sherlock muttered and typed a quick answer.
“Why can’t you just have a cool job?” Daniel wondered with a disappointed glare.
“Sorry to break it to you, but there’s more to life than the marvellous world of computers,” Sherlock explained with an irritated subtext to the calmness.
“You suck,” Daniel told his father with a sigh and left the almost empty plate on the coffee table and went upstairs again, turning on the music as soon as the door closed.
“He has no idea what you do for a living,” John said in surprise.
“Yes he does,” Sherlock sighed and picked up the plate and brought it to the kitchen, “He knows I’m a consultant to the police but in his mind that translates to ‘juggling papers and making power points’. If it’s not something that survived the dot-com bubble he wants nothing of it.”
“Has he tried googling you?” John wondered.
“Have you googled your dull father?” Sherlock wondered with a smile, “Thought so. There’s still some cold noodles if you want lunch?”
John shook his head. This was such a strange parallel universe to the one he’d been living in the last one and a half week. But cold noodles sounded great, especially accompanied to the music that once again could make tea jump out of its mug.
On Sunday morning John left to have brunch with Harry. Not because he really wanted to, but he had promised and he felt like father and son might need some time alone in the flat. Sherlock had slept in his bed between Saturday and Sunday – and survived – and John had to take that as a good thing.
When he came home around two-ish – Harry had been delightful as ever – he was greeted by the already so familiar sound of Sherlock’s Stradivarius violin; it was one of Sherlock’s more appealing quirks, odd hours or not. This time there was a second sound though; someone answered Sherlock’s distinguished playing with a tentative tune from a second string instrument.
It was interesting to hear, John didn’t recognise the piece, and he was careful when he walked up the stairs to not scar away this phenomenon. John had his suspicions about what he was going to find in the sitting room and was proven right when he saw Sherlock and Daniel standing next to each other, both with a violin in their hands.
The interaction between father and son was the complete opposite from what John had seen earlier. Daniel was reading the music sheet very carefully while Sherlock almost exclusively watched his son’s playing and John was pretty sure no one hated the other in this moment. It was an endearing sight, it reminded John about playing football in the backyard with his dad. This must be the Holmes-version of that somehow.
“Hello John,” Sherlock said without turning around when the piece was over. Daniel turned and looked at him though, blushing slightly.
“That was amazing,” John commended, making Daniel’s blush more intense and Sherlock’s smile a bit wider. “Have you played for long Daniel?”
“Uncle Mycroft bought me my first violin when I was five,” Daniel admitted and John realised that “uncle Mycroft” sounded just as strange as “dad” sounded when it addressed Sherlock.
“He has a really good ear for violins, your uncle,” Sherlock commented to Daniel as he put the Stradivarius away, “He couldn’t play to save his life though. Have you packed everything?”
“Yes,” Daniel answered as he also put the instrument away, the tone of voice telling John Sherlock had been nagging him about this.
“And you haven’t left anything too incriminating on any hard drive or browser history?” Sherlock continued with a smirk.
“DAD!” Daniel screamed, his face turning hot red.
“I wasn’t the one leaving, what was it? Japanese school girl uniform porn on your mother’s laptop,” Sherlock said, “I was blamed for it though….”
“Shut up!” Daniel squirmed and John tried his hardest not to giggle; Sherlock was pure evil.
“Just be glad I’m not talking about the Christmas play in year two,” Sherlock pointed out, “John doesn’t care about your porn consumption if he doesn’t have to trip over it while trying to write something in his blog.”
“Shut up!” Daniel repeated, “Why do you always have to do that? I haven’t even touched his computer, you know that!”
“Don’t worry,” John said with an amused smile, “Doesn’t bother me, but thanks for not downloading porn on my computer.”
“I hate you,” Daniel said in a very defeated voice and looked at his father as if in pain. The words weren’t even close to as sincere as it had been on Friday; it sounded more like a grumpy default answer. Sherlock grinned.
“I hate you too,” Sherlock said in a caring voice, “Now go and get your bag, you know how upset your mother gets when you’re not home in time for dinner.”
“I’m never coming back here,” Daniel muttered as he went to get the backpack and soon afterwards father and son said good bye with just as an uncomfortable hug as they had shared when Daniel had arrived.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Daniel earlier,” Sherlock said as they stood outside and watched Daniel walk towards Baker Street station, “I know I said flatmates should know the worst things about each other before moving in together.”
“The worst things?” John grinned, “Sherlock, I’m pretty sure that boy is the best thing about you.”
“Yea,” Sherlock’s face lit up in the most wonderful smile just as they saw Daniel disappear behind the corner, “He really is, isn’t he?”
***
Daniel's adventure continues here.
hey_khaleesi has translated this into Italian.
Summary: When talking about violin playing at odd hours and going days without speaking Sherlock just happen to forget mentioning he had custody of his 15-year-old son every second weekend.
***
“What are your plans for this weekend?” Sherlock asked without looking up from the piles of newspaper clippings he was either sorting or just shuffling around – John couldn’t tell and had stopped trying to figure it out.
“Pretend it’s a difference between weekdays and weekends when you’re unemployed?” John suggested after a quick glare at Sherlock, “Why? Lestrade’s not letting you in to the Yard and you need me to get something?”
“Tss….I’d be in and out of there faster than you, with or without permission to enter,” Sherlock said with a huff, “I just wondered if you’d be willing to lend your bed to Daniel.”
“To who?”
“Daniel,” Sherlock looked up with his typical how-can-you-not-know-what-I’m-talking-about look, but with the insight that he shared a flat with one of the planets close to 7 billion idiots he continued, “My son.”
“Excuse me? Your what?” John was sure he had misheard Sherlock.
“My son,” Sherlock repeated so clearly John couldn’t doubt it.
“You have a…you’ve a son?” John was shocked. How could this not have come up earlier? Or, how was Sherlock even capable of procreation? Somehow, John had seen Sherlock as a being without any type of sexuality – like he was above basic human needs and wants.
“Yes, a 15-year-old son,” Sherlock apparently decided that the paper clippings weren’t worth his time anymore and started to place them back in the boxes he had removed them from in the first place as he continued to explain to the stunned John, “I have him every other weekend, he lives with his mother in Ipswich usually. I had him every weekend for a while, but it didn’t go so well…work and it’s a pretty long trip and well…it didn’t really work. His mother and I don’t get along anymore.”
John would probably have jumped on the fact that not only was Sherlock a father, but he was the father of a teenager, if Sherlock hadn’t sounded so guilty about the arrangement he now had with his son.
“You have questions again,” Sherlock told John and tilted his head slightly. John smiled, it was an understatement; his head was exploding with questions and he couldn’t decide where to start so he just kept staring at Sherlock, as if he saw him for the very first time.
“So many questions,” John admitted with a weak smile, “But yeah, maybe he can have my bed? Why not your bed?”
“He made it perfectly clear some years ago that he didn’t want my bed,” Sherlock said, “But don’t worry about it, he can sleep on the sofa. That’s what he usually does…Never really had a place that was big enough for two beds.”
John looked around their flat; most of the things in here were Sherlock’s, most of them looked at least 5 years old, most of them was not at all suitable for an environment where a child should grow up.
“Sherlock,” John said with a soft smile, “Let’s go to IKEA, eat some meatballs and buy your son a bed.”
“Meatballs….Not one of Scandinavia’s best exports,” Sherlock said with a frown, but started to search for his scarf and coat anyway. John could swear the hint of annoyance in Sherlock’s voice was not because of the suggestion of having Swedish cuisine but because it had been John and not he who had realised they could just buy a spare bed.
The days leading up to Friday was filled with equal amounts of anticipation and fear, at least for John. What Sherlock thought was just as hard to tell as ever. They wrapped up a case concerning a missing diary and some strange e-mails and without even thinking about it John found himself childproofing the flat. Probably silly since the boy obviously had survived 15 years in similar environments; but a man who couldn’t bother to eat or sleep himself, what kind of role model was he to a child?
John found out so many interesting things during these days; Daniel was the result of a broken condom and two scared teenagers who tiptoed around the truth until it was too late to have an abortion. Sherlock and Joyce – Daniel’s mother – had been together for three months when Joyce got pregnant and they had stayed together until Daniel had been eighteen days (giving the conversation at Angelo’s a whole new meaning).
To John’s surprise, Sherlock had made sure they had proper food at home. Not to mention that the remaining traces from the foot-in-the-sink incident magically disappeared on Friday morning and the lock finally went on the chemical cabinet. All John was left to do was vacuuming. John was sincerely impressed with Sherlock and so, so curious to meet Daniel.
Just before seven on Friday Sherlock’s phone rang and sure, John had only been living with the man for one and a half week but he had still never seen him answer the phone so quickly.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered and went to the window, “Yes, you turn right, it’s Baker Street you see there…yes, right again when you reach it. No, you don’t need a cab…it’s not even 200 meters. No….Come on!....Yes, 221 b. See you soon.”
He hung up and shook his head, looking vaguely annoyed but somehow more nervous and happy than John had ever seen him.
“Kids….He wanted to take a cab from the station.” Sherlock said, giving John a telling look, “Let’s go down and make sure he actually gets here.”
John felt a bit surprised, or shocked, or just taken by his first look at Sherlock as a father. It had just sounded so…not like Sherlock. Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs when John shook the astonishment enough to be able to get up from the chair and follow.
“Mrs Hudson, he’s almost here now!” Sherlock called out to their landlady just moments before he opened the door to wait for his son outside. Both John and Mrs Hudson were quick to follow.
“There he is,” Sherlock said pointing at a gangly, young man and then he raised his hand to wave at the boy. The smile on Sherlock’s face was happy, and almost insecure, according to John.
The boy walking down the other side of Baker Street – without answering the wave – was a blond version of what John imagined Sherlock would have looked like at 15. It was almost creepy; they moved the same way, had the same soft curls and the same elegant features. Except the colour pallet, John couldn’t see Joyce contributing with anything. Well, maybe the clothing style, jeans and a t-shirt was not something John thought Sherlock would pick out.
“Hi,” Daniel said as he reached them and he and Sherlock shared an awkward hug, John recognised it as the same type of hug he’d used to share with his father at that age. Hell, he still shared that sort of hug with his father.
“Daniel, you remember Mrs Hudson, don’t you?” Sherlock introduced as he moved the teenager towards the house.
“Err….” Daniel answered, but to his credit he reached out to shake Mrs Hudson’s hand.
“Sherlock, don’t embarrass the boy, surely he can’t remember me. But my Goodness, you’ve grown. I haven’t seen you since you were this big,” Mrs Hudson twittered, showing a height somewhere between a toddler’s and Daniel’s current one – he was almost as tall as Sherlock.
“Hi Mrs Hudson,” Daniel said properly and Sherlock seemed pleased.
“And this,” Sherlock continued, turning his son towards John, “is Dr John Watson.”
“Hi Daniel,” John managed to force out of his mouth along with a smile and an offered hand.
“Dr Watson,” Daniel greeted and took the hand as he scrutinised John.
“’John’’ll be fine,” John insisted before all of them moved inside; Mrs Hudson to her place and the rest of them upstairs.
“So this is it, what do you think?” Sherlock wondered as Daniel dropped his backpack next to the sofa.
“Better than the one in Heston,” Daniel nodded and placed himself on the sofa in the same manner he had handled the backpack. John took that as approval.
“Feet off sofa or shoes off feet,” Sherlock said and pointed at Daniel’s feet which had been placed on the armrest; before John had the time to say anything Sherlock had turned to him with a look asking John not to mention that this rule had never been enforced at 221 B Baker Street before.
“Whatever,” Daniel rolled his eyes, “It’s my bed, isn’t it?”
“No, actually it is not,” Sherlock said, looking pleased, “We got you a bed.”
“’We’?” Daniel moved his shoes from the sofa, “Dad…please don’t tell me you’re gay with this army bloke.”
There were so many problems with that sentence if you asked John. For starters, hearing Daniel call Sherlock “dad” as if it was the most natural thing in the world (which it probably was) blew his mind! Then, why did everyone always assume they were together? And last, how did he know about his army background? Was he just as observant as his father or had Sherlock informed him about that? The shock factor of Sherlock being in a relationship with John was also a bit disturbing, but John could excuse that – not something he’d wanted to find out about his father either.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock asked his son, picking up the backpack and placing it on a chair instead, “Your very existence is evidence that I’m not gay.”
“Yeah…whatever,” Daniel sounded unconvinced and uninterested, “I’m going out.”
“No you’re not,” Sherlock informed him, blocking the way out of the sitting room by standing in the doorway.
“Yes, I am,” Daniel crossed his arms over his chest and looked up in Sherlock’s face with a lippy expression, “I’m meeting friends.”
“What friends?” Sherlock demanded.
“You don’t know them.”
“What friends?” Sherlock repeated without any sign of room for compromises.
“Friends from school.” Daniel said cocky.
“Really? Friends from Northgate High School are here, in London, on a Friday night?” Sherlock didn’t sound convinced. At all. God, it must be impossible to be Sherlock’s kid; why did Daniel even bother with white lies and bad excuses? Sure, even John could have seen through that story, but still, forget hiding cigarettes, stealing alcohol, making up alibis or just claiming to be somewhere else than one had been.
“Yes. Funny coincident isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” Sherlock had looked more amused when Anderson had been correct at a crime scene, “You’re staying.”
“I hate you!” Daniel half-yelled in Sherlock’s face, “Angela and Simon are having a party tomorrow and I’m stuck in the world’s most boring place and you don’t even let me go out! Why can’t you let me have some fun when you force me here?”
“Because I know exactly what kind of fun 15-year-old boys have in London on Friday nights,” Sherlock said measuring his son with his eyes, “And your mother would kill me if something happens to you.”
“Hypocrite,” Daniel spit out.
“Not just that,” Sherlock said with a stern voice, “Even if I do feel a bit too young to be a grandfather. But it’s dark soon and London’s dangerous.”
“Don’t be such a dick,” Daniel sighed in frustration, “What can possibly happen?”
John could see how a long string of answers danced passed Sherlock, probably every single murder case he had ever worked on. There was true worry behind that determined face.
“I’m going to show you your room now,” Sherlock said in a clam voice, stating that this conversation was over. “You’re mother said you had some homework to do, so you might as well get an early start.”
“You can’t tell me what to do!” Daniel stamped the floor.
“Take your backpack,” Sherlock said as if he hadn’t heard him and, to John’s surprise, Daniel obeyed. They disappeared upstairs and the door to Sherlock’s bedroom was slammed shut three times, John couldn’t figure that out. Well, he had trouble figuring anything of this out.
“So that’s Daniel,” Sherlock said moments later when he came down to the sitting room again.
“Charming,” John said with a smile and Sherlock answered with a similar one and shook his head before falling onto the sofa in very much the same way Daniel had just minutes before. One episode of the Midsomer Murders later – John had the DVD box – Daniel came down stairs again, looking far less cocky.
“Are you done?” Sherlock wondered.
“Yes,” Daniel nodded.
“Do you want med to correct it?” Sherlock continued, holding out a hand, apparently expecting to be handed something.
“No,” Daniel shook his head and continued with a sigh at Sherlock’s gaze, “It’s history, not brain surgery, I think I can handle it.”
“If you say so,” Sherlock nodded, “Be home by midnight.”
“Yea,” Daniel nodded and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“I mean it. Midnight. Baker Street. Be here.”
“I promise dad,” Daniel almost rolled his eyes, “Don’t wait up. Bye John.”
“Ha! You wish!” Sherlock yelled after his son as he disappeared downstairs, “And what ever you do, DON’T TAKE A CAB!”
The door slammed shut and Sherlock sank deep down in the sofa.
“He’s going to be late,” he predicted turning his head to John, “Would it be bad to have Mycroft spying on him?”
“Pretty sure he won’t approve any more than you do,” John said with an amused smirk.
“Stop trying to be cleaver,” Sherlock huffed, but then he smile slightly. It was weird seeing Sherlock smile this often.
Sherlock prediction turned out to be correct. He had placed himself in front of the window ten minutes before midnight and just watched the street outside, but it wasn’t until seventeen minutes past that he actually did something.
“Do you think something has happened?” he asked John – who still watched DCI Barnaby solving crimes – and there was genuine worry in his voice.
“I’m sure he’s just late Sherlock,” John reassured him with a smile, “Have you tried calling him?”
“I’ve texted.”
“Call him; I’m sure he’s close.”
Sherlock went to fetch his phone, worry oozing out of him. It was a bit contagious John must admit even though he was sure nothing had happened to Daniel. Either way, he started to feel a bit guilty for every time he had missed curfews as a kid.
Before Sherlock had dialled his son’s number the door downstairs was unlocked and opened, giving John right; Daniel had been close. Sherlock basically flew down the first flight of stairs to make sure it actually was Daniel.
“Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer the text?” John could hear Sherlock ask in a stern, but hush, voice to not wake Mrs Hudson. What Daniel answered was impossible to make out though.
“You reek of cigarettes,” Sherlock’s hush voice continued to scold the boy as they both made their way up the stairs.
“Piss off,” Daniel asked him as they reached the sitting room floor. Daniel was apparently planning to move up yet another flight of stairs to the bedrooms but Sherlock forced him through the sitting room and into the kitchen.
“Have you been smoking something other than nicotine?” Sherlock asked, turning on the horrible lamps in the kitchen he’d had installed for when he needed extra light for some experiment.
“None of your business,” Daniel stated as Sherlock forced the lamp in his son’s face for a close eye examination.
“Fuck you!” Daniel tried to shove him away and since Sherlock apparently had been satisfied with what he’d seen he allowed it to happen. “You’re such a freak, you know that?!”
“Go to the bedroom,” Sherlock ordered, “And stay there!”
“Are you grounding me?” Daniel wondered.
“As a matter of fact, I am!”
“You can’t do that, you’re not mum,” there was something so victorious in the way he said it that John felt his own heart breaking as if the words had been directed at him and not at Sherlock.
“Watch me,” Sherlock asked in a very controlled voice, “The good thing about parenthood is that it actually is a team sport; she finds out you’re smoking, you’re not coming out again until graduation mister!”
“You’re the worst dad ever! I hate you!” Daniel informed Sherlock again and then he stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the poor door shut again.
“Do you have a spare change of sheets in your room?” Sherlock wondered when he came back into the sitting room after a couple of minutes, “I guess I’ll be sleeping on the sofa tonight, or the next murder Lestrade will be solving is going to be mine.”
John gave Sherlock a concerned look and the permission to enter his room to get some sheets.
The grounding seemed to be affective immediately, whatever Joyce might have to say about it, and Daniel seemed to have accepted that faith. At least until lunch, when the volume of the music coming from Sherlock’s bedroom reached a critical level, making John’s tea vibrate.
“Honestly, how can he listen to that excuse for music?” Sherlock wondered and got up from his computer where he’d been corresponding with Lestrade.
“We can’t all be a fan of London Symphony Orchestra,” John tried to explain with a soft smile.
“They’re like water buffalos with bows compared to the Royal Concertgebouw,” Sherlock muttered before he reached the door to the sitting room and yelled upstairs: “Turn that bloody music down and come down and eat lunch instead!”
The result was even louder music and Sherlock, sighing, went upstairs to deal with the problem hands on. John could hear them arguing, but there were no words to make out and he did wonder what lunch Sherlock wanted Daniel to eat – John was pretty sure nothing had been cooked in the kitchen since they moved in.
“…and there are cold noodles in the one with a green lid.” Sherlock finished a sentence as father and son finally came downstairs again. It took some time for John to understand what they were talking about but when he heard Daniel putting something on a plate and starting the microwave he realised that Sherlock had prepared food for reheating. Either that or Daniel was going to eat ears and eyeballs and John didn’t want to believe that.
“What?” Sherlock asked when he saw John’s surprised face, “The boy has to eat.”
“You’re not going to join him?”
“Apparently I ruin his appetite,” Sherlock frowned slightly and looked towards the kitchen while adding in a louder voice, “But seeing idiots throw themselves off rocks, having their bones pop out of their skin is all fine as dining entertainment.”
“You’re such a wimp dad,” Daniel replied, “Just because you can’t stomach to see some blood and bone pipes.”
John looked between the kitchen and Sherlock, feeling confused and amused. Sherlock would be the last person in the world John would call scared of blood.
“I just don’t think it’s a proper thing to watch or a behaviour to encourage,” Sherlock corrected him.
“Try to connect with the real world dad! Everybody does it.”
John almost expected the “Well if everybody jumped off a bridge”-line from Sherlock, but instead the consulting detective’s phone rang.
“Who was it?” John wondered when Sherlock hung up without even answering.
“Lestrade.”
“Who?” Daniel asked, leaning against the wall with his plat in his hand.
“Don’t eat standing up,” Sherlock sighed irritated, “And Lestrade is a friend from work.”
A friend from work? That was a new description of the DI John had never heard.
“Simon’s dad works for Google you know,” Daniel informed as he sat down on the sofa with his plate.
“So you’ve told me,” Sherlock muttered as he sent a text.
“And Collin’s is a computer engineer.”
“How wonderful for him,” Sherlock said and tossed his phone to John when it buzzed again, “What do you think?”
“About Collin’s dad?”
“No, about Lestrade’s answer of course,” Sherlock said with a hint of frustration.
“We didn’t forget to bring him those photos,” John stated after reading the text, tossing the phone back.
“Thought so,” Sherlock muttered and typed a quick answer.
“Why can’t you just have a cool job?” Daniel wondered with a disappointed glare.
“Sorry to break it to you, but there’s more to life than the marvellous world of computers,” Sherlock explained with an irritated subtext to the calmness.
“You suck,” Daniel told his father with a sigh and left the almost empty plate on the coffee table and went upstairs again, turning on the music as soon as the door closed.
“He has no idea what you do for a living,” John said in surprise.
“Yes he does,” Sherlock sighed and picked up the plate and brought it to the kitchen, “He knows I’m a consultant to the police but in his mind that translates to ‘juggling papers and making power points’. If it’s not something that survived the dot-com bubble he wants nothing of it.”
“Has he tried googling you?” John wondered.
“Have you googled your dull father?” Sherlock wondered with a smile, “Thought so. There’s still some cold noodles if you want lunch?”
John shook his head. This was such a strange parallel universe to the one he’d been living in the last one and a half week. But cold noodles sounded great, especially accompanied to the music that once again could make tea jump out of its mug.
On Sunday morning John left to have brunch with Harry. Not because he really wanted to, but he had promised and he felt like father and son might need some time alone in the flat. Sherlock had slept in his bed between Saturday and Sunday – and survived – and John had to take that as a good thing.
When he came home around two-ish – Harry had been delightful as ever – he was greeted by the already so familiar sound of Sherlock’s Stradivarius violin; it was one of Sherlock’s more appealing quirks, odd hours or not. This time there was a second sound though; someone answered Sherlock’s distinguished playing with a tentative tune from a second string instrument.
It was interesting to hear, John didn’t recognise the piece, and he was careful when he walked up the stairs to not scar away this phenomenon. John had his suspicions about what he was going to find in the sitting room and was proven right when he saw Sherlock and Daniel standing next to each other, both with a violin in their hands.
The interaction between father and son was the complete opposite from what John had seen earlier. Daniel was reading the music sheet very carefully while Sherlock almost exclusively watched his son’s playing and John was pretty sure no one hated the other in this moment. It was an endearing sight, it reminded John about playing football in the backyard with his dad. This must be the Holmes-version of that somehow.
“Hello John,” Sherlock said without turning around when the piece was over. Daniel turned and looked at him though, blushing slightly.
“That was amazing,” John commended, making Daniel’s blush more intense and Sherlock’s smile a bit wider. “Have you played for long Daniel?”
“Uncle Mycroft bought me my first violin when I was five,” Daniel admitted and John realised that “uncle Mycroft” sounded just as strange as “dad” sounded when it addressed Sherlock.
“He has a really good ear for violins, your uncle,” Sherlock commented to Daniel as he put the Stradivarius away, “He couldn’t play to save his life though. Have you packed everything?”
“Yes,” Daniel answered as he also put the instrument away, the tone of voice telling John Sherlock had been nagging him about this.
“And you haven’t left anything too incriminating on any hard drive or browser history?” Sherlock continued with a smirk.
“DAD!” Daniel screamed, his face turning hot red.
“I wasn’t the one leaving, what was it? Japanese school girl uniform porn on your mother’s laptop,” Sherlock said, “I was blamed for it though….”
“Shut up!” Daniel squirmed and John tried his hardest not to giggle; Sherlock was pure evil.
“Just be glad I’m not talking about the Christmas play in year two,” Sherlock pointed out, “John doesn’t care about your porn consumption if he doesn’t have to trip over it while trying to write something in his blog.”
“Shut up!” Daniel repeated, “Why do you always have to do that? I haven’t even touched his computer, you know that!”
“Don’t worry,” John said with an amused smile, “Doesn’t bother me, but thanks for not downloading porn on my computer.”
“I hate you,” Daniel said in a very defeated voice and looked at his father as if in pain. The words weren’t even close to as sincere as it had been on Friday; it sounded more like a grumpy default answer. Sherlock grinned.
“I hate you too,” Sherlock said in a caring voice, “Now go and get your bag, you know how upset your mother gets when you’re not home in time for dinner.”
“I’m never coming back here,” Daniel muttered as he went to get the backpack and soon afterwards father and son said good bye with just as an uncomfortable hug as they had shared when Daniel had arrived.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Daniel earlier,” Sherlock said as they stood outside and watched Daniel walk towards Baker Street station, “I know I said flatmates should know the worst things about each other before moving in together.”
“The worst things?” John grinned, “Sherlock, I’m pretty sure that boy is the best thing about you.”
“Yea,” Sherlock’s face lit up in the most wonderful smile just as they saw Daniel disappear behind the corner, “He really is, isn’t he?”
***
Daniel's adventure continues here.
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Daddy!Sherlock = love
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comments = love too!
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I hope you don't mind - I spotted two glitches - 'mom' (mum) and 'second grade' (year two) that seemed a little jarring. Maybe you'd like to fix them?
Thanks for this.
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