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Entry tags:
Love, war and parenthood
Notes: I wrote this some couple of days ago about Sherlock as a father to a teenager and got so many wonderful comments – I’m so, so grateful, thank you so much. I really liked the thought of Daniel and am happy that more than I did and therefore I wrote a second story about it.
Summary: Daniel and his parents have different views on what is an appropriate Friday activity for a 15-year-old and John learns yet another thing about Sherlock.
***
Sherlock’s phone beeped.
No reaction.
John looked over to see why, but Sherlock seemed too occupied with something in the kitchen to even hear it. It was a long time ago since John had decided to not ask what the experiments were about, but as long as the number of body parts was kept at a minimum he was satisfied. He had an upper limit to the amount of mould he allowed being cultured in the bathroom, but Sherlock had never gotten close to it yet. Not board enough to be curious John went back to his new project – read all Sherlock’s books. He had so far gotten through two.
The phone beeped again.
No reaction.
Third beep and at least that earned a frown from Sherlock, but he didn’t move away from the kitchen table.
“John can you please get that?” Sherlock asked without look up when the person trying to get in touched with him gave up the texting and finally called.
“I told you that word wouldn’t make you burst into flames,” John said with a smirk. He wasn’t even going to be irritated about the fact that he had to put down his book and walk across the flat to answer a phone that lay on the table about two decimetres from Sherlock’s left elbow. No, the detective had said “please” and that sort of behaviour should be rewarded.
“Sherlock Holmes’s phone, John Watson speaking,” he answered after noting the hidden number on the screen.
“Put him on,” a female voice John couldn’t place ordered in a way that would’ve made John officers proud.
“There’s a woman on the phone for you,” John said, covering the mike.
“Of course it’s for me, it’s my phone,” Sherlock pointed out, “Tell Joyce I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Err….” John put the phone back to his ear, “He’s not here right now…forgot his phone. Who can I say’s calling?”
“He’s right beside you, isn’t he?” the woman – Joyce if you believed Sherlock.
“Err…yea….” John caved and Sherlock finally looked up with an annoyed frown, but before John had managed to give him the phone the consulting detective had jumped up and actually left the kitchen, shortly afterwards even the flat.
“I’m sorry….Now he’s really gone,” John told the woman on the phone.
“That immature bastard!” the woman blurted out, “Tell that irresponsible excuse for a man that his son is out somewhere in London without permission and I’d appreciate if he acted like a parent for once and found him.”
“Ehm….I’ll be sure to tell him er…that, but London is quite a huge place to look for a fifteen year old boy,” John tried.
“Oh, not for the great Sherlock Holmes,” the woman – that John had to admit must be Joyce – said, every word dripping of sarcasm.
“I’ll tell him,” John promised, “Anything else?”
“He could call me, but I don’t hope for miracles. So no, that’s all. Thank you.”
John stood for a moment with the phone in his hand – that had been…interesting – before he headed downstairs to see if he could catch Sherlock. It wasn’t at all hard; Sherlock sat on the step just outside.
“Joyce called,” John said, sitting down next to him and handing him back the phone, “She wanted me to tell you…that you have a teenage son running around London without permission and that it is your task as a responsible father to find him.”
“Damnit!” Sherlock cursed, flipping the phone open again to read the texts he had received previous to the call. “You don’t think he’d answer if I just call him?”
“I know I wouldn’t,” John said with a smile, thanking whatever being of worship cared to listen that he’d been young and stupid before the invention of mobile phones.
“No reason to alert him of the fact that his mother called me then,” Sherlock established, putting the phone in his pocket.
“Does he do this often?” John wondered.
“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Not often, but it’s not the first time. Teenage child to separated young parents…it’s more than expected.”
“Teenage rebellions are always as unexpected as they should be expected,” John said in a vague attempt to comfort Sherlock, even though he was not sure comfort was needed.
“Do you want to come with me?” Sherlock asked as he forced himself to his feet.
“To track down your son on a Friday night?” John wanted to clarify.
“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, but put on a faith smile, “You know, and maybe you’ll experience it some day, having a doctor along when you’re trying to stop your kid from doing something stupid is kind of a comfort. Or well, since you are a doctor, maybe you don’t need to have someone come with you.”
“I see your point,” John said with a smile.
“And I might need you around to stop me from killing him,” Sherlock added as he went back into 221 B, muttering something about a ruined experiment that he’d worked on for 11 hours.
20 minutes later they were in a cab. Sherlock had thrown said ruined experiment in the sink – Petri dishes and all – looked up two addresses on the computer and prepared Daniel’s bed before they left. John wondered if Sherlock would ask Mycroft for help in a matter like this, but decided not to ask at all.
“You know where we should start looking?” John asked after the cabdriver had been given the first address.
“I have some ideas, yes,” Sherlock admitted, “He’s a 15-year-old boy from Ipswich, there’s not likely to be many places he could be. Had he been a 15-year-old girl and/or living in the city it would have been trickier. Underage boys have so much harder getting into clubs than underage girls and since he’s not really from here the risk of him knowing the places that would let a 15-year-old boy in is slim.”
“So where are we going?”
“He has two friends with similar living arrangements as he does, so I bet one of these friend’s parents is out of town tonight,” Sherlock couldn’t hide his disapproval, “If this turns out to be incorrect, I’ll just have to hack his Facebook account.”
“How very Mycroft of you,” John said with a smirk.
“Shut up,” Sherlock asked him in stern politeness and John had to bite his lip not to giggle.
Not 15 minutes later the cab slowed down and Sherlock was outside almost before it had come to a complete halt. John waited until the car wasn’t moving anymore, but follow after asking the driver to wait.
Sherlock’s finger worked its way over the list of residents in the unattractive, shabby building, stopping at an F. Gordon – John’s head exploded with Queen songs. At first there was no answer when Sherlock buzzed the entry phone, but the second time there was a rasping sound in the speaker and a male voice, sounding a bit newly awake, answered.
For a moment John thought Sherlock would just leave since this apparently wasn’t the place where Daniel was, but to his surprise Sherlock leaned in and talked into the mike.
“Hi, sorry to bother you. It’s Sherlock Holmes, Daniel Green’s father. Jack isn’t in town tonight, is he?”
John had never heard this person speak before. He’d foolishly thought that he had gotten to know all Sherlock’s different personas by now, but apparently he was mistaken. This was a parent talking to another parent in a way that John – who didn’t have children – could never understand.
“No…no he’s in Ipswich. Why? Something happened?” the voice said through the crackled speaker.
“Hopefully not,” Sherlock let out a sigh, “Daniel just thought of tonight was a good night to explore London unsupervised. His mother’s in frenzy. ”
“Understandable,” John almost thought he heard a chuckle from the speaker, “Well, good luck….I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock turned away from the building, almost looking surprised to see John standing there. A bit absent minded tonight, are we Sherlock?
“He has your number?” John wondered as they walked back to the cab, since he couldn’t figure out something better to say.
“No, but I’m sure it’s on some school list or something,” Sherlock shrugged, “And Google is almost a human right now so….Not to mention that his not going to hear anything either.”
They got into the cab again and went to the second address that Sherlock had looked up. John watched his friend in silence and wondered how much more worried he was now when the first stop had rendered itself useless. Reading Sherlock came as easy to John as reading Dari though, so he gave up rather quick. Sherlock passed the time by doing something on his phone. John suspected that a particular Facebook account was being hacked – that must count as Sherlock being more worried than before though.
“I’d like to see Collin’s father do that,” Sherlock muttered and put away the phone as the entered the street where Daniel’s second friend lived; or where one of the parents to Daniel’s second friend lived. John guessed the hacking had been successful.
Getting out of the cab after another 15 minute ride went exactly the same as last time, with the one difference that John paid the cabbie. Sherlock had already buzzed the entry phone (S. Miller) a first time.
“Maybe no one’s home?” John tried when they haven’t gotten an answer after three tries.
“They’re there,” Sherlock said confident and buzzed a fourth time. The fifth time they got an answer and not even John could deny that it was a party going on in the flat connected to the other phone.
“Who’sthere?” a young man spluttered over the sound of a broken base beat.
“Hi!” Sherlock greeted the teenager, giving John a look telling him that this could be one of the stupidest people he’d been talking to in his entire life, “I heard you had like a party?”
“Whotoldye?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Danny Green, can I come up or what?”
The door buzzed and John opened it for them. Sherlock looked like he was trying really hard to compose himself as they headed up the stairs to the second floor and John felt a bit ashamed for wanting to see what was about to happen.
The door to the flat was opened – poor neighbours – and the music, screams and laughers could be heard even before they reached the right floor. John got a sudden flashback to his university days as they stepped over a smaller mountain of shoes, but after that the similarities between drunk medical students and drunk 15-year-olds ended (not really, but John wished).
In the combined sitting/dining room four girls were dancing, passing around a bottle of cheep whiskey, another two girls were hanging out from a window – probably smoking – and three boys seemed to play some sort of game that John couldn’t really work out but involving two ping-pong balls and a bottle of wine. Something broke in the kitchen with a smash, a lot of laughter and even more screaming. The future of the United Kingdom indeed.
While John did these observations – noting that he didn’t see Daniel – Sherlock walked over to the stereo and, without mercy, pulled the cord. The music, and the party, stopped at once. A storm of profanities came flying from every direction, but from the kitchen came a single cry:
“DAD!?”
Then the room went quiet.
Sherlock looked at his son with the most disappointing and disapproving look John had ever seen. God, he was happy he was not on the receiving end of that. The other teenagers looked even more uncomfortable than John, which was completely understandable since they deserved the death glare from Sherlock just as much as Daniel did.
“Dad….I….” Daniel finally started.
“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, “You have lost your right to speak!”
“But dad!”
Whatever Sherlock had planned to answer it was distracted by one of the girls smoking girls, throwing up out through the window.
“Marvellous,” Sherlock said with a sigh, “Now this is what we do: every single on of you are going to call your parents and have them pick you up.”
“But Mr Green….” one of the boys tried.
“His name’s not Green, it’s Holmes,” Daniel interrupted, giving Sherlock a glare stating he knew the words would hurt his father. Hurt was indeed the look that brushed over Sherlock’s face before the stern mask was rebuild and he repeated that they all should call their parents or he’d call the police. The teenagers exchanged looks, a mix of shame, fear and played cockiness, but all of them found their phones under the observant gaze of Sherlock Holmes. John felt fairly certain the detective wished to be anyone but Sherlock Holmes right now though.
Half an hour before midnight the habitants of 221 B Baker Street left the flat after seeing all of the others off. Most of the parents had been grateful Sherlock had broken up the party, but two of them had scolded him for it. In one of the cases Sherlock had just stood there in silence and let the words hail over him, the other time he loudly explained to the angry mother that just because she liked screwing her secretary after office hours there was no excuse for letting her son out on the town.
“Why do you always do this?” Daniel wondered as soon as they reached the street and both John and Sherlock tried to get a cab, “Why do you always have to ruin everything?”
“Because you always do stuff worth ruining,” Sherlock said with undisputable logic.
“I was just hanging out with some friends!” Daniel yelled and Sherlock stopped every attempt to get a cab to pull over.
“Taking a train to London without telling mum, to drink the fruits of liquor cabinet raids is not classified as ‘just hanging out with some friends’ when you’re fifteen,” Sherlock informed his son.
“Mum called you?!” Daniel cried out, making his voice break and his ears blush, “This you can team up to do? When it comes to ruining my life it’s okay? But when you come to watch me play football you almost kill each other!”
“Of course she called me,” Sherlock started when Daniel stopped to catch his breath.
“Why do you hate me this much?” Daniel interrupted him, sounding genuinely wondering and despondent. Sherlock stared at him, for once unable to form words. To make sounds. Fortunately John had just managed to get a cab and it saved Sherlock from needing to answer.
“Daniel….” Sherlock tried with a sigh when the door finally closed behind them at Baker Street after the most uncomfortable cab ride John had ever endured; Daniel had stared out the window the whole time and Sherlock had alternated between doing the same and looking at his son.
“Piss off!” Daniel asked him and started up the stairs.
“Daniel!” Sherlock yelled but did nothing to go after him, just let him disappear and fell back against the wall.
“Do you want me to check on him?” John wondered, having no idea what else to do.
“Throw him out for all I care,” Sherlock said crushed as he started to go up the stairs.
Of course John did no such thing; instead he waited a while before bringing both a bucket (just in case) and a glass of water up to Sherlock’s bedroom. Daniel was already softly snoring and John was happy and equally surprised that the boy had decided to not cause any more trouble tonight.
When John came down again Sherlock was in the kitchen, making tea, as if the mere of presence of Daniel under the same roof made him domestic. John took over Sherlock’s usual duty and placed one lump of sugar in each mug.
“He’s already sleeping,” John informed him, “Didn’t even remove his clothes.”
“That’s good I guess,” Sherlock said, pouring the hot water over the teabags and the sugar and handing one of the mugs to John. Then he started to clean up after the experiment he had disposed of in a hurry, apparently not thinking about the tea anymore.
“Do you want me to…er…leave?” John wondered, finding nothing to say to comfort Sherlock. Because Sherlock needed comfort, it would be obvious for anyone to see, but John had a feeling he was one of the few that Sherlock allowed to see it.
“I should text Joyce,” Sherlock reminded himself, not caring to answer John’s question, making John believe he could stay.
“I think you should call her,” he dared to advice, “She said she wanted you to do that every now and then.”
“But it’s so late….” Sherlock said, obviously trying to get away from actually calling.
“You know she’s up waiting to hear for you,” John said sure of himself even though he had never met Joyce. Sherlock did nothing to respond to that, but dialled a number instead of sending a text.
“Did…did I wake you?” Sherlock said into the phone moments later, scratching the back of his neck as a nervous teen, “Yes I found him….Yes, his here….No, nothing like that. No….I don’t- I don’t know. Yes, well, yea….I think so. I send him back on Sunday. Yea….Okay?” Sherlock actually let a small laughter slip “Sleep tight.”
John watched him, curious and concerned. It was amazing what a difference the phone call had made to Sherlock’s posture; he didn’t look as broken now as he’d done just seconds before and something had come back to his eyes.
“So….Joyce says hi,” Sherlock said and finally picked up his tea mug, “And Daniel’s staying here until Sunday…I hope it’s okay?”
“Perfectly fine,” John promised, “You didn’t tell her what happened?”
“Her was one of the raided liquor cabinets, so she knows.” Sherlock said with the same disapproving smile as when he’d been talking about the parent who was out of town.
John wondered just how much Sherlock and Joyce didn’t get along. Judging by Sherlock current facial expression alone they didn’t have anything in common; if adding Daniel’s description of the football games and the short conversation John had had with Joyce, then John would have to say they didn’t even stand each other. The brief phone call John had just listened to told a different story though. There was something there, if only just the memory of that they had once cared for each other and the mutual concern for the boy they had brought into the world together.
“So Daniel plays football?” John decided to change topic on his own train of thoughts as they seated themselves in the sitting room – the kitchen was almost never a proper place to consume anything.
“What? Oh….Yes, centre- or left-back mostly.” Sherlock went from confused to smiling, “They say he’s quite good.”
“You don’t know?” John said surprised.
“I know he’s the best,” Sherlock said confident, but smirking, “but I’m a bit bias.”
“I didn’t know you liked football,” John smiled.
“I really don’t,” Sherlock shook his head, “It’s barbaric and time consuming and more than a little pointless….But I like watching Daniel play. The joy in….He really loves it; started playing when he was just five. I suspect this was why Mycroft bought him a violin that year, since I knew nothing about the sport.”
“But you do now?”
“Ten years by the touchline, it’s impossible to not pick up a thing or two,” Sherlock said with a smile, “I mean I have no idea who coaches the UK national team for example” – John had to bite his lip not to burst into laughter – “but I do know all the players in Daniels team and all referees in his league by name. I still haven’t grasped off-side yet, but I’m really good at spotting when the players are diving. They do it so much more often now than when they were younger….I blame the Italians.”
“What?” John laughed.
“I don’t really,” Sherlock shook his head again as if he couldn’t grasp this concept either, “but I’ve heard that you’re supposed to do that.”
“Yes, you’re supposed to do that,” John smiled, “and the current manager for England’s national team is Fabio Capello.”
“That sounds Italian, is that why we should blame the Italians?” Sherlock wondered, not noting John’s subtle correction. Probably not finding it important enough.
“He is Italian, but no, that’s not why,” John chuckled, “Can I come with you to the next time you’re going to watch him play?”
“You really want to?” Sherlock had problems not beaming with pride.
“I actually enjoy the barbaric, time consuming pointlessness of it all,” John smirked, “but mostly I want to see you do chants.”
“I don’t chant.” Sherlock stated with huff.
“Sure you don’t,” John smirked and left the room in the benefit of his bed, giggling quietly about the UK national team.
When Daniel came downstairs in the early afternoon the next day he looked just as much as a hung-over and embarrassed teenager as one could have expected. According to Sherlock’s report neither the bucket nor the glass had been touched during the night.
John was alone in the sitting room while Sherlock had once again started with the experiment he’d had to abort yesterday.
“Good morning,” John greeted him with a smile, wondering if being addressed was going to ease or increase the embarrassment. With his eyes he then pointed towards the kitchen and, in doing so, also at Sherlock.
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock wondered, entering the sitting room before Daniel had managed to decide if he was going to the kitchen or not. John was impressed over how fast the experiment concentration had been broken for Sherlock. Daniel’s response wasn’t much more than a frown though and Sherlock handed him the glass he had brought with him from the kitchen.
“Doctor’s orders,” he stated with a small smile, “And when I say ‘doctor’ I really mean it.”
“It’s fluid replacement,” John said in an explanatory voice when Daniel looked over at him at Sherlock’s comment, “Hung over cure and university survival trick.”
“I called your mother when we came home yesterday,” Sherlock said when Daniel had taken the glass and placed himself on the sofa. This not-so-surprising news made Daniel frown as if in pain and close his eyes. “We decided that you can stay here for the duration of the weekend if you like and I guess you’re not too keen to sit on a train for over an hour, are you? Even if it would stand as a wonderful punishment.”
Daniel slowly tipped his head back against the wall.
“I take that as a sign of agreement,” Sherlock stated softly with a small smile, “Now drink your fluid replacement before you spill it all over yourself.”
“You’re not going to punish me?” Daniel wondered in disbelief, opening his eyes.
“Oh, you can count on it, young man,” Sherlock said, “We just haven’t decided on what to do with you this time.”
There were equal amounts of glee and threat in that statement and Sherlock went back to the kitchen, probably to make sure Daniel’s weekend plans didn’t ruin his second attempt on the experiment.
“You know,” John said low with a smile, leaning towards Daniel who looked more than a little crushed, “He thinks the UK has a national football team.”
This served its purpose, Daniel smiled weakly and John smiled grew a bit wider.
“He also thinks Aston Villa is a Roman house in Aston,” Daniel told John.
“I do not!” Sherlock stated loudly from the kitchen. Both Daniel and John laughed; John maybe a bit louder and more amused than the hung-over teenager, but still.
“I’m not entirely sure you deserve this now,” Sherlock said, entering the sitting room again, this time carrying a tray with a bowl of fresh fruit salad (John could see bananas, oranges and pears), a plate of scrambled eggs and a glass of water.
“I’m sorry dad,” Daniel said, meeting Sherlock’s gaze for a long time. John wasn’t completely sure, but the apology felt like it concerned yesterday’s events rather than the innocent mockery that had just occurred.
Sherlock placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa and gave Daniel’s shoulder a light squish and his blond hair an affectionate caress. Apology accepted, John supposed.
“You’re still probably going to be grounded until you’re old enough to vote,” Sherlock said, “And you should call mum and apologise to her as well. But try to eat first and then you can take a shower and borrow some of my clothes.”
Daniel nodded and forced a smile before Sherlock went back to the kitchen again.
Shortly after dinner on Sunday John watched from the window how Sherlock and Daniel said good bye for this time; the sight of Daniel in one of Sherlock’s shirts had amused John since the boy had come out of the shower yesterday, but seeing both of them together outside 221 B Baker Street felt oddly surrealistic. The hug lasted a little longer, and looked a bit less awkward, then the previous hugs John had seen them share and afterwards Sherlock seemed to take a last chance to lecture his son about something before Daniel waved to John in the window and left.
A bit embarrassed for being caught in his not-so-discrete spying John waved back. Sherlock looked up at him, shook his head and smiled a tired smile. John mimed the word “Tea” and tried in inaccurate sign language show how he drank tea out of an invisible cup. Sherlock’s smile became a bit less tired and John was pretty sure he answered “Yes please” before getting back into the house.
“Have you decided on a suitable punishment for Daniel yet?” John wondered as the kettle was placed on the stove and Sherlock joined him in the kitchen for arranging the sugar.
“Oh yes,” Sherlock smirked, “We’re going to do absolutely nothing.”
“What?” John felt confused.
“He knows what he did was wrong and he expects some sort of punishment and therefore he’ll dread it until he gets it. This way it’s going to be a long and extended torment during which time he’ll be on his best behaviour, not wanting to make the coming punishment worse,” Sherlock looked very smug, “It was one of my mother’s favourite measures of torment.”
“That’s…almost diabolic,” John said with an amused smirk.
“You know what they say John; all is fair in love and war.” Sherlock handed him the two prepared mugs for him to pour water in them, then he added with a wink: “And I like to think parenthood is a bit of both.”
***
A/N: I’m aware of the fact that there’s actually been a UK national team, but as far as I know they haven’t played a single game during my lifetime (but do I hear rumours about the Olympics in 2012?) and I do blame the lack of a UK national football team for my inability to differentiate between “England” and “United Kingdom” as a child.
Daniel's continued adventures can be found here.
Summary: Daniel and his parents have different views on what is an appropriate Friday activity for a 15-year-old and John learns yet another thing about Sherlock.
***
Sherlock’s phone beeped.
No reaction.
John looked over to see why, but Sherlock seemed too occupied with something in the kitchen to even hear it. It was a long time ago since John had decided to not ask what the experiments were about, but as long as the number of body parts was kept at a minimum he was satisfied. He had an upper limit to the amount of mould he allowed being cultured in the bathroom, but Sherlock had never gotten close to it yet. Not board enough to be curious John went back to his new project – read all Sherlock’s books. He had so far gotten through two.
The phone beeped again.
No reaction.
Third beep and at least that earned a frown from Sherlock, but he didn’t move away from the kitchen table.
“John can you please get that?” Sherlock asked without look up when the person trying to get in touched with him gave up the texting and finally called.
“I told you that word wouldn’t make you burst into flames,” John said with a smirk. He wasn’t even going to be irritated about the fact that he had to put down his book and walk across the flat to answer a phone that lay on the table about two decimetres from Sherlock’s left elbow. No, the detective had said “please” and that sort of behaviour should be rewarded.
“Sherlock Holmes’s phone, John Watson speaking,” he answered after noting the hidden number on the screen.
“Put him on,” a female voice John couldn’t place ordered in a way that would’ve made John officers proud.
“There’s a woman on the phone for you,” John said, covering the mike.
“Of course it’s for me, it’s my phone,” Sherlock pointed out, “Tell Joyce I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Err….” John put the phone back to his ear, “He’s not here right now…forgot his phone. Who can I say’s calling?”
“He’s right beside you, isn’t he?” the woman – Joyce if you believed Sherlock.
“Err…yea….” John caved and Sherlock finally looked up with an annoyed frown, but before John had managed to give him the phone the consulting detective had jumped up and actually left the kitchen, shortly afterwards even the flat.
“I’m sorry….Now he’s really gone,” John told the woman on the phone.
“That immature bastard!” the woman blurted out, “Tell that irresponsible excuse for a man that his son is out somewhere in London without permission and I’d appreciate if he acted like a parent for once and found him.”
“Ehm….I’ll be sure to tell him er…that, but London is quite a huge place to look for a fifteen year old boy,” John tried.
“Oh, not for the great Sherlock Holmes,” the woman – that John had to admit must be Joyce – said, every word dripping of sarcasm.
“I’ll tell him,” John promised, “Anything else?”
“He could call me, but I don’t hope for miracles. So no, that’s all. Thank you.”
John stood for a moment with the phone in his hand – that had been…interesting – before he headed downstairs to see if he could catch Sherlock. It wasn’t at all hard; Sherlock sat on the step just outside.
“Joyce called,” John said, sitting down next to him and handing him back the phone, “She wanted me to tell you…that you have a teenage son running around London without permission and that it is your task as a responsible father to find him.”
“Damnit!” Sherlock cursed, flipping the phone open again to read the texts he had received previous to the call. “You don’t think he’d answer if I just call him?”
“I know I wouldn’t,” John said with a smile, thanking whatever being of worship cared to listen that he’d been young and stupid before the invention of mobile phones.
“No reason to alert him of the fact that his mother called me then,” Sherlock established, putting the phone in his pocket.
“Does he do this often?” John wondered.
“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Not often, but it’s not the first time. Teenage child to separated young parents…it’s more than expected.”
“Teenage rebellions are always as unexpected as they should be expected,” John said in a vague attempt to comfort Sherlock, even though he was not sure comfort was needed.
“Do you want to come with me?” Sherlock asked as he forced himself to his feet.
“To track down your son on a Friday night?” John wanted to clarify.
“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, but put on a faith smile, “You know, and maybe you’ll experience it some day, having a doctor along when you’re trying to stop your kid from doing something stupid is kind of a comfort. Or well, since you are a doctor, maybe you don’t need to have someone come with you.”
“I see your point,” John said with a smile.
“And I might need you around to stop me from killing him,” Sherlock added as he went back into 221 B, muttering something about a ruined experiment that he’d worked on for 11 hours.
20 minutes later they were in a cab. Sherlock had thrown said ruined experiment in the sink – Petri dishes and all – looked up two addresses on the computer and prepared Daniel’s bed before they left. John wondered if Sherlock would ask Mycroft for help in a matter like this, but decided not to ask at all.
“You know where we should start looking?” John asked after the cabdriver had been given the first address.
“I have some ideas, yes,” Sherlock admitted, “He’s a 15-year-old boy from Ipswich, there’s not likely to be many places he could be. Had he been a 15-year-old girl and/or living in the city it would have been trickier. Underage boys have so much harder getting into clubs than underage girls and since he’s not really from here the risk of him knowing the places that would let a 15-year-old boy in is slim.”
“So where are we going?”
“He has two friends with similar living arrangements as he does, so I bet one of these friend’s parents is out of town tonight,” Sherlock couldn’t hide his disapproval, “If this turns out to be incorrect, I’ll just have to hack his Facebook account.”
“How very Mycroft of you,” John said with a smirk.
“Shut up,” Sherlock asked him in stern politeness and John had to bite his lip not to giggle.
Not 15 minutes later the cab slowed down and Sherlock was outside almost before it had come to a complete halt. John waited until the car wasn’t moving anymore, but follow after asking the driver to wait.
Sherlock’s finger worked its way over the list of residents in the unattractive, shabby building, stopping at an F. Gordon – John’s head exploded with Queen songs. At first there was no answer when Sherlock buzzed the entry phone, but the second time there was a rasping sound in the speaker and a male voice, sounding a bit newly awake, answered.
For a moment John thought Sherlock would just leave since this apparently wasn’t the place where Daniel was, but to his surprise Sherlock leaned in and talked into the mike.
“Hi, sorry to bother you. It’s Sherlock Holmes, Daniel Green’s father. Jack isn’t in town tonight, is he?”
John had never heard this person speak before. He’d foolishly thought that he had gotten to know all Sherlock’s different personas by now, but apparently he was mistaken. This was a parent talking to another parent in a way that John – who didn’t have children – could never understand.
“No…no he’s in Ipswich. Why? Something happened?” the voice said through the crackled speaker.
“Hopefully not,” Sherlock let out a sigh, “Daniel just thought of tonight was a good night to explore London unsupervised. His mother’s in frenzy. ”
“Understandable,” John almost thought he heard a chuckle from the speaker, “Well, good luck….I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock turned away from the building, almost looking surprised to see John standing there. A bit absent minded tonight, are we Sherlock?
“He has your number?” John wondered as they walked back to the cab, since he couldn’t figure out something better to say.
“No, but I’m sure it’s on some school list or something,” Sherlock shrugged, “And Google is almost a human right now so….Not to mention that his not going to hear anything either.”
They got into the cab again and went to the second address that Sherlock had looked up. John watched his friend in silence and wondered how much more worried he was now when the first stop had rendered itself useless. Reading Sherlock came as easy to John as reading Dari though, so he gave up rather quick. Sherlock passed the time by doing something on his phone. John suspected that a particular Facebook account was being hacked – that must count as Sherlock being more worried than before though.
“I’d like to see Collin’s father do that,” Sherlock muttered and put away the phone as the entered the street where Daniel’s second friend lived; or where one of the parents to Daniel’s second friend lived. John guessed the hacking had been successful.
Getting out of the cab after another 15 minute ride went exactly the same as last time, with the one difference that John paid the cabbie. Sherlock had already buzzed the entry phone (S. Miller) a first time.
“Maybe no one’s home?” John tried when they haven’t gotten an answer after three tries.
“They’re there,” Sherlock said confident and buzzed a fourth time. The fifth time they got an answer and not even John could deny that it was a party going on in the flat connected to the other phone.
“Who’sthere?” a young man spluttered over the sound of a broken base beat.
“Hi!” Sherlock greeted the teenager, giving John a look telling him that this could be one of the stupidest people he’d been talking to in his entire life, “I heard you had like a party?”
“Whotoldye?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Danny Green, can I come up or what?”
The door buzzed and John opened it for them. Sherlock looked like he was trying really hard to compose himself as they headed up the stairs to the second floor and John felt a bit ashamed for wanting to see what was about to happen.
The door to the flat was opened – poor neighbours – and the music, screams and laughers could be heard even before they reached the right floor. John got a sudden flashback to his university days as they stepped over a smaller mountain of shoes, but after that the similarities between drunk medical students and drunk 15-year-olds ended (not really, but John wished).
In the combined sitting/dining room four girls were dancing, passing around a bottle of cheep whiskey, another two girls were hanging out from a window – probably smoking – and three boys seemed to play some sort of game that John couldn’t really work out but involving two ping-pong balls and a bottle of wine. Something broke in the kitchen with a smash, a lot of laughter and even more screaming. The future of the United Kingdom indeed.
While John did these observations – noting that he didn’t see Daniel – Sherlock walked over to the stereo and, without mercy, pulled the cord. The music, and the party, stopped at once. A storm of profanities came flying from every direction, but from the kitchen came a single cry:
“DAD!?”
Then the room went quiet.
Sherlock looked at his son with the most disappointing and disapproving look John had ever seen. God, he was happy he was not on the receiving end of that. The other teenagers looked even more uncomfortable than John, which was completely understandable since they deserved the death glare from Sherlock just as much as Daniel did.
“Dad….I….” Daniel finally started.
“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, “You have lost your right to speak!”
“But dad!”
Whatever Sherlock had planned to answer it was distracted by one of the girls smoking girls, throwing up out through the window.
“Marvellous,” Sherlock said with a sigh, “Now this is what we do: every single on of you are going to call your parents and have them pick you up.”
“But Mr Green….” one of the boys tried.
“His name’s not Green, it’s Holmes,” Daniel interrupted, giving Sherlock a glare stating he knew the words would hurt his father. Hurt was indeed the look that brushed over Sherlock’s face before the stern mask was rebuild and he repeated that they all should call their parents or he’d call the police. The teenagers exchanged looks, a mix of shame, fear and played cockiness, but all of them found their phones under the observant gaze of Sherlock Holmes. John felt fairly certain the detective wished to be anyone but Sherlock Holmes right now though.
Half an hour before midnight the habitants of 221 B Baker Street left the flat after seeing all of the others off. Most of the parents had been grateful Sherlock had broken up the party, but two of them had scolded him for it. In one of the cases Sherlock had just stood there in silence and let the words hail over him, the other time he loudly explained to the angry mother that just because she liked screwing her secretary after office hours there was no excuse for letting her son out on the town.
“Why do you always do this?” Daniel wondered as soon as they reached the street and both John and Sherlock tried to get a cab, “Why do you always have to ruin everything?”
“Because you always do stuff worth ruining,” Sherlock said with undisputable logic.
“I was just hanging out with some friends!” Daniel yelled and Sherlock stopped every attempt to get a cab to pull over.
“Taking a train to London without telling mum, to drink the fruits of liquor cabinet raids is not classified as ‘just hanging out with some friends’ when you’re fifteen,” Sherlock informed his son.
“Mum called you?!” Daniel cried out, making his voice break and his ears blush, “This you can team up to do? When it comes to ruining my life it’s okay? But when you come to watch me play football you almost kill each other!”
“Of course she called me,” Sherlock started when Daniel stopped to catch his breath.
“Why do you hate me this much?” Daniel interrupted him, sounding genuinely wondering and despondent. Sherlock stared at him, for once unable to form words. To make sounds. Fortunately John had just managed to get a cab and it saved Sherlock from needing to answer.
“Daniel….” Sherlock tried with a sigh when the door finally closed behind them at Baker Street after the most uncomfortable cab ride John had ever endured; Daniel had stared out the window the whole time and Sherlock had alternated between doing the same and looking at his son.
“Piss off!” Daniel asked him and started up the stairs.
“Daniel!” Sherlock yelled but did nothing to go after him, just let him disappear and fell back against the wall.
“Do you want me to check on him?” John wondered, having no idea what else to do.
“Throw him out for all I care,” Sherlock said crushed as he started to go up the stairs.
Of course John did no such thing; instead he waited a while before bringing both a bucket (just in case) and a glass of water up to Sherlock’s bedroom. Daniel was already softly snoring and John was happy and equally surprised that the boy had decided to not cause any more trouble tonight.
When John came down again Sherlock was in the kitchen, making tea, as if the mere of presence of Daniel under the same roof made him domestic. John took over Sherlock’s usual duty and placed one lump of sugar in each mug.
“He’s already sleeping,” John informed him, “Didn’t even remove his clothes.”
“That’s good I guess,” Sherlock said, pouring the hot water over the teabags and the sugar and handing one of the mugs to John. Then he started to clean up after the experiment he had disposed of in a hurry, apparently not thinking about the tea anymore.
“Do you want me to…er…leave?” John wondered, finding nothing to say to comfort Sherlock. Because Sherlock needed comfort, it would be obvious for anyone to see, but John had a feeling he was one of the few that Sherlock allowed to see it.
“I should text Joyce,” Sherlock reminded himself, not caring to answer John’s question, making John believe he could stay.
“I think you should call her,” he dared to advice, “She said she wanted you to do that every now and then.”
“But it’s so late….” Sherlock said, obviously trying to get away from actually calling.
“You know she’s up waiting to hear for you,” John said sure of himself even though he had never met Joyce. Sherlock did nothing to respond to that, but dialled a number instead of sending a text.
“Did…did I wake you?” Sherlock said into the phone moments later, scratching the back of his neck as a nervous teen, “Yes I found him….Yes, his here….No, nothing like that. No….I don’t- I don’t know. Yes, well, yea….I think so. I send him back on Sunday. Yea….Okay?” Sherlock actually let a small laughter slip “Sleep tight.”
John watched him, curious and concerned. It was amazing what a difference the phone call had made to Sherlock’s posture; he didn’t look as broken now as he’d done just seconds before and something had come back to his eyes.
“So….Joyce says hi,” Sherlock said and finally picked up his tea mug, “And Daniel’s staying here until Sunday…I hope it’s okay?”
“Perfectly fine,” John promised, “You didn’t tell her what happened?”
“Her was one of the raided liquor cabinets, so she knows.” Sherlock said with the same disapproving smile as when he’d been talking about the parent who was out of town.
John wondered just how much Sherlock and Joyce didn’t get along. Judging by Sherlock current facial expression alone they didn’t have anything in common; if adding Daniel’s description of the football games and the short conversation John had had with Joyce, then John would have to say they didn’t even stand each other. The brief phone call John had just listened to told a different story though. There was something there, if only just the memory of that they had once cared for each other and the mutual concern for the boy they had brought into the world together.
“So Daniel plays football?” John decided to change topic on his own train of thoughts as they seated themselves in the sitting room – the kitchen was almost never a proper place to consume anything.
“What? Oh….Yes, centre- or left-back mostly.” Sherlock went from confused to smiling, “They say he’s quite good.”
“You don’t know?” John said surprised.
“I know he’s the best,” Sherlock said confident, but smirking, “but I’m a bit bias.”
“I didn’t know you liked football,” John smiled.
“I really don’t,” Sherlock shook his head, “It’s barbaric and time consuming and more than a little pointless….But I like watching Daniel play. The joy in….He really loves it; started playing when he was just five. I suspect this was why Mycroft bought him a violin that year, since I knew nothing about the sport.”
“But you do now?”
“Ten years by the touchline, it’s impossible to not pick up a thing or two,” Sherlock said with a smile, “I mean I have no idea who coaches the UK national team for example” – John had to bite his lip not to burst into laughter – “but I do know all the players in Daniels team and all referees in his league by name. I still haven’t grasped off-side yet, but I’m really good at spotting when the players are diving. They do it so much more often now than when they were younger….I blame the Italians.”
“What?” John laughed.
“I don’t really,” Sherlock shook his head again as if he couldn’t grasp this concept either, “but I’ve heard that you’re supposed to do that.”
“Yes, you’re supposed to do that,” John smiled, “and the current manager for England’s national team is Fabio Capello.”
“That sounds Italian, is that why we should blame the Italians?” Sherlock wondered, not noting John’s subtle correction. Probably not finding it important enough.
“He is Italian, but no, that’s not why,” John chuckled, “Can I come with you to the next time you’re going to watch him play?”
“You really want to?” Sherlock had problems not beaming with pride.
“I actually enjoy the barbaric, time consuming pointlessness of it all,” John smirked, “but mostly I want to see you do chants.”
“I don’t chant.” Sherlock stated with huff.
“Sure you don’t,” John smirked and left the room in the benefit of his bed, giggling quietly about the UK national team.
When Daniel came downstairs in the early afternoon the next day he looked just as much as a hung-over and embarrassed teenager as one could have expected. According to Sherlock’s report neither the bucket nor the glass had been touched during the night.
John was alone in the sitting room while Sherlock had once again started with the experiment he’d had to abort yesterday.
“Good morning,” John greeted him with a smile, wondering if being addressed was going to ease or increase the embarrassment. With his eyes he then pointed towards the kitchen and, in doing so, also at Sherlock.
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock wondered, entering the sitting room before Daniel had managed to decide if he was going to the kitchen or not. John was impressed over how fast the experiment concentration had been broken for Sherlock. Daniel’s response wasn’t much more than a frown though and Sherlock handed him the glass he had brought with him from the kitchen.
“Doctor’s orders,” he stated with a small smile, “And when I say ‘doctor’ I really mean it.”
“It’s fluid replacement,” John said in an explanatory voice when Daniel looked over at him at Sherlock’s comment, “Hung over cure and university survival trick.”
“I called your mother when we came home yesterday,” Sherlock said when Daniel had taken the glass and placed himself on the sofa. This not-so-surprising news made Daniel frown as if in pain and close his eyes. “We decided that you can stay here for the duration of the weekend if you like and I guess you’re not too keen to sit on a train for over an hour, are you? Even if it would stand as a wonderful punishment.”
Daniel slowly tipped his head back against the wall.
“I take that as a sign of agreement,” Sherlock stated softly with a small smile, “Now drink your fluid replacement before you spill it all over yourself.”
“You’re not going to punish me?” Daniel wondered in disbelief, opening his eyes.
“Oh, you can count on it, young man,” Sherlock said, “We just haven’t decided on what to do with you this time.”
There were equal amounts of glee and threat in that statement and Sherlock went back to the kitchen, probably to make sure Daniel’s weekend plans didn’t ruin his second attempt on the experiment.
“You know,” John said low with a smile, leaning towards Daniel who looked more than a little crushed, “He thinks the UK has a national football team.”
This served its purpose, Daniel smiled weakly and John smiled grew a bit wider.
“He also thinks Aston Villa is a Roman house in Aston,” Daniel told John.
“I do not!” Sherlock stated loudly from the kitchen. Both Daniel and John laughed; John maybe a bit louder and more amused than the hung-over teenager, but still.
“I’m not entirely sure you deserve this now,” Sherlock said, entering the sitting room again, this time carrying a tray with a bowl of fresh fruit salad (John could see bananas, oranges and pears), a plate of scrambled eggs and a glass of water.
“I’m sorry dad,” Daniel said, meeting Sherlock’s gaze for a long time. John wasn’t completely sure, but the apology felt like it concerned yesterday’s events rather than the innocent mockery that had just occurred.
Sherlock placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa and gave Daniel’s shoulder a light squish and his blond hair an affectionate caress. Apology accepted, John supposed.
“You’re still probably going to be grounded until you’re old enough to vote,” Sherlock said, “And you should call mum and apologise to her as well. But try to eat first and then you can take a shower and borrow some of my clothes.”
Daniel nodded and forced a smile before Sherlock went back to the kitchen again.
Shortly after dinner on Sunday John watched from the window how Sherlock and Daniel said good bye for this time; the sight of Daniel in one of Sherlock’s shirts had amused John since the boy had come out of the shower yesterday, but seeing both of them together outside 221 B Baker Street felt oddly surrealistic. The hug lasted a little longer, and looked a bit less awkward, then the previous hugs John had seen them share and afterwards Sherlock seemed to take a last chance to lecture his son about something before Daniel waved to John in the window and left.
A bit embarrassed for being caught in his not-so-discrete spying John waved back. Sherlock looked up at him, shook his head and smiled a tired smile. John mimed the word “Tea” and tried in inaccurate sign language show how he drank tea out of an invisible cup. Sherlock’s smile became a bit less tired and John was pretty sure he answered “Yes please” before getting back into the house.
“Have you decided on a suitable punishment for Daniel yet?” John wondered as the kettle was placed on the stove and Sherlock joined him in the kitchen for arranging the sugar.
“Oh yes,” Sherlock smirked, “We’re going to do absolutely nothing.”
“What?” John felt confused.
“He knows what he did was wrong and he expects some sort of punishment and therefore he’ll dread it until he gets it. This way it’s going to be a long and extended torment during which time he’ll be on his best behaviour, not wanting to make the coming punishment worse,” Sherlock looked very smug, “It was one of my mother’s favourite measures of torment.”
“That’s…almost diabolic,” John said with an amused smirk.
“You know what they say John; all is fair in love and war.” Sherlock handed him the two prepared mugs for him to pour water in them, then he added with a wink: “And I like to think parenthood is a bit of both.”
***
A/N: I’m aware of the fact that there’s actually been a UK national team, but as far as I know they haven’t played a single game during my lifetime (but do I hear rumours about the Olympics in 2012?) and I do blame the lack of a UK national football team for my inability to differentiate between “England” and “United Kingdom” as a child.
Daniel's continued adventures can be found here.
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Well done tale. I liked the line about the 'girl smoking out the window, now throwing up out the window'. Again that knowing touch about teenagers.
This is nice little AU and I would like to see more of it.
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Hahahaa! Me too! First thing I thought of! Loving this 'verse!
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