Don't be your father’s son. Please?
Sep. 14th, 2011 11:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNotes: So...more about Daniel. First time written from Sherlock's POV and not John's, that detail is probably not going to repeat itself.
Summary: Sherlock realises Daniel has a girlfriend, something that makes him a bit uneasy; remembering all to well what his first girlfriend lead to.
Earlier craziness with Sherlock as the father to a 15-year-old can be found here
***
It took Sherlock about two minutes after Daniel’s arrival to notice that something was different with his son. Mainly it was the posture; not better, not worse, but different. His mother had bought him new clothes so at first Sherlock just took it as side effect of that, but it was something else.
Oh.
Oh….
Daniel had a girlfriend.
Shit.
When did that happened?
“What?” Daniel wondered as he worked his school books out of his backpack, “I’m going to study, I promise!”
“Er….Do you want something to nibble on?” Sherlock asked, stunned by this surprising insight in his son’s life, “Or tea?”
“Eh, no?” Daniel looked at his father the same deprecatory way he always did; as if Sherlock was the most clueless person in the world.
“Okay then,” Sherlock said with a nod, “Dinner at seven.”
“Yea, yea.” Daniel was so obviously not listening that Sherlock almost felt insulted, but he closed the door to the bedroom, letting his hand stay on the scuffed door surface for a moment.
***
It felt surrealistic; like the stuff bad teenage movies were made of. The plastic stick on the bathroom sink, the thick silence, the dawning feeling of panic….The only thing missing was a pop song soundtrack.
“That can’t be right….” Sherlock said finally, “We must have done it wrong.”
Joyce sank down onto the floor, letting her forehead rest on her knees. That was not very much of a response if you asked Sherlock. He picked up the stick and looked at it, trying to see where they’d done it wrong, trying to see a way that this was not real.
“We should do it again,” Sherlock stated, placing the stick on the porcelain again, “These aren’t 100 % accurate, it must be wrong.”
Joyce looked up, his own growing panic reflected in her face, “You really think so?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, he couldn’t. There was so much hope in her voice and he wanted nothing other than say that he really did think so, but he just didn’t manage to. Instead he sat down on the floor next to her.
Damn it.
***
“Stop pacing,” John ordered him, “You’re making me stressed.”
Sherlock halted in front of the fireplace and turned around, when had John come in? He hated when that happened, it was too easy to sneak up on him when he was thinking, but it was hard to do anything about it. Either you’re focused on your surroundings or you’re focused on your mind. In the safety of his own flat, Sherlock preferred the latter. Still, John surprising – and interrupting – him was never welcome.
“What’re you thinking about?” John wondered and patted at the space next to him on the sofa. What was he thinking? No way was he going to sit down there and spill his heart. When had he ever done that John?
Oh. Stupid.
John’s smirk told him right away that the good doctor was just mocking him.
“Do teenagers have sex?” Sherlock wondered, folding his arms over his chest.
“Asks the 32-year-old father of a 15-year-old son,” John laughed.
“That was 16 years ago,” Sherlock frowned, this was not a laughing matter, “Haven’t teenagers gotten any smarter?”
“Just when it comes to computers,” John continued to smirk, “and those little iPod-thingies.”
“You’re really not helping John,” Sherlock pointed out and started his pacing again without even thinking about it.
“You haven’t told me what to help you with yet,” John pointed out and well, he was right and by now he should have gotten used to the fact that John really wanted everything verbally presented to him.
“Daniel has a girlfriend.”
“Oh!” John said with a surprised, happy smile.
“Not ‘oh!’” Sherlock did a mockery mimic of John’s perkiness “It’s not a good thing, he’s just 15!”
“Oh….” John did a horrible attempt to correct his response and he left the charade with a soft laughter, “It’s not the end of the world Sherlock, most teens in the UK have lost their virginity at 17.”
“Thank you doctor,” Sherlock snorted, John was terrible at the comforting part sometimes, “And Daniel is just 15! It’s not even legal yet!”
“Because you’re always so keen to fallow the law,” John smirked and took hold of Sherlock’s wrist as he passed by the sofa, “Girlfriend doesn’t equal sex Sherlock. I’m sure that irritatingly logic brain of yours understands that.”
“I was 16 years and 10 months when he was born,” Sherlock shook his head and tried to look through the wall, to the bed room where he knew Daniel was, “Joyce wasn’t even that….”
“Have you regretted it?” John asked as if the answer would be a simple no; like this question was going to erase all the worries and fears Sherlock felt for the prospect of becoming a grandfather before 35, for the prospect of Daniel going through everything he had gone through. John had watched too many bad films and TV-shows.
It wasn’t an easy answer, because the answer was yes. He had regretted it so many times and every time he felt so ashamed he just wanted to shoot himself. It didn’t happen so often anymore, just a few times these last couple of years, but it still happened. And it was still so painful. Every time. He hated himself every time.
“No,” he answered because John wanted him to say just that, because it was the only answer that wouldn’t make him hate himself.
***
The door to his room opened and closed; even without opening his eyes he knew it was Mycroft that had decided to invade his privacy. What about a locked door did he not understand? The marvel of Mycroft Holmes rarely descended to the family home anymore, so him being here – breaking in – must mean that Mummy or Daddy had ordered him to do so.
“Sherlock, what on earth have you done?” Mycroft wondered in a very condescending voice.
Sherlock kept his eyes and mouth closed in the vain hope that Mycroft would leave. Instead Mycroft poked him with something. Arse!
“Stop being such an over-grown baby,” Mycroft ordered, “Open your eyes and tell your big brother why you’re having the sulk of the millennium.”
He wasn’t having a sulk (and even if he did, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t even reach top 10 of the greatest sulks of this millennium), he was having a life crisis, sprinkled with panic and depression. Mycroft inability to distinguish between the situations (and his weakness when it came to resting the recent pop cultural phenomena to namedrop “the millennium” in every second sentence) was almost reason enough to open his eyes and contradict him. Almost.
“Are you trying to be difficult on purpose?”
What a stupid question Mycroft. Of course it was on purpose! This part at least…the rest had not been on purpose at all. God! How could this be? Sherlock placed both arms over his face, letting out a trembling sigh. It sounded more like a sob than a sigh though, maybe it was a sob? Well, maybe he was allowed to sob under the present circumstances.
Mycroft sat down on the bed and moved the arms from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock had a hard time remembering the last time they’d had skin-to-skin contact and for that reason only he opened his eyes. His brother looked genuinely like a concerned older brother and for once Sherlock wished that they had a different relationship than they did.
“Christ Sherlock,” Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock didn’t question how or what Mycroft reacted to because he knew that his brother knew.
“They said we were four days too late,” Sherlock said in a voice hoarse by tears, built up by panic and fear.
“What?” Something hardened in Mycroft’s voice, “Six months? Half a year? What have you two been doing?”
Sherlock looked up into the ceiling and fought off the tears efficiently. What had they been doing these last six months? Or rather these last four months since they’d found out? Gaaah! He had no idea. Everything was still so surrealistic and insane.
“Have you at least told her parents?” Mycroft pressed on, easily reaching the conclusion that the Holmes parents was oblivious of this. Sherlock didn’t manage to answer with more than a shake of his head.
“There’s always the option of adoption,” Mycroft offered as a solution. They had considered that. The doctors they’d met with had suggested the same thing, but some how, when they had allowed it to go this far….
Sherlock forced himself to sit up and when he tried to make sure there were no tears under his eyes Mycroft handed him a handkerchief. Sherlock took it, but did not use it. Instead he twisted it in his hands for a moment before looking up at his brother.
“I’m going to be a dad….” he whispered, forcing a smile that became easier for ever second he kept it up.
“Congratulation,” Mycroft said and it was impossible to say if he was sincere or not.
***
“If it worries you this much you could always talk to him,” John suggested when he cleared away the reminders of their take-out Chinese dinner, which had ended with Daniel snatching the last egg roll and disappearing into the bedroom again.
“Hm?” Sherlock stopped in the middle of pouring water in mugs. He didn’t like ordering in when Daniel was here; he actually liked cooking, but it was hard to find the time and motivation when Daniel wasn’t around. Today there had just been too much pacing (at least that was the reason John had suggested for the lack of time) to squeeze it in.
“Your fingers,” John pointed out, “You’re tapping with them; you never tap your fingers.”
Oh look! He did.
Sherlock looked down on his hand and stopped the tapping right away. Instead he finished the tea and made sure he held his hands still around the mug. It was a bit frustrating when people pointed out his flaws and emotions.
Oh…hehe…oops. God he must be obvious if John was able to do it.
“If the prospect of Daniel having sex is bothering you, talk to him,” John clarified.
“Don’t use ‘sex’ and ‘Daniel’ in the same sentence please,” Sherlock frowned.
“I’m sorry,” John smiled that terrible smile of his, telling Sherlock that he was not sorry at all but rather amused by Sherlock’s state of mind. The skull was such a better friend sometimes.
“I don’t want to talk to him about sex,” Sherlock felt repulsed by the mere thought.
“Sherlock,” John sighed, “You’re supposed to be the adult, remember?”
“Even you with your limited skill set of observation must have noticed that we don’t really communicate well,” Sherlock snorted. He hated that this was the case; he just had no idea how to talk with his son. He knew others thought he had trouble communicating period, but he didn’t care about that. He’d had problem communicating with teenagers when he had been one, so what were his chances when he just was around Daniel four days a month? Who, by the way, thought he was the dullest person in the world and wanted nothing of his company most of the time.
“No teenager communicates well,” John pointed out, “I read a study saying it was biologically impossible for parents and teenagers to understand each other.”
“You just made that up.”
“Yea, but I think I can rally up a big enough group to testify in the matter to make it statistically bearable in two- two and a half hours,” John grinned.
That might have been the first helpful and comforting thing John had said the entire evening; reminding him that all parents had troubles with their children and not just he. That his problems with Daniel wasn’t just because they never saw each other and because he still thought of himself as too young to be a father, but because teenagers were a pain in the arse. For everyone.
“He’ll think I don’t trust him,” Sherlock shook his head.
“Well, you don’t.”
“No I don’t,” Sherlock sighed, “He hasn’t a good track record for earning trust.”
That was true, but it still sucked to say it. What was it with John Watson that constantly made him say too much? Show too much? Be too much?
“Is this the best time to pretend that you do then?”
“I miss my scull,” Sherlock said with a pout, “It never asks me such difficult questions.”
“No one talked to me about sex – except awkward sex ed. in school that just talked about mechanics – and I didn’t loose my virginity until I was almost 19,” John tried.
“No one talked about sex with me either and I had a son before I was 17,” Sherlock replied, seating himself in an armchair with yet another sigh. “Can’t you talk to him?”
“Yea you see…no,” John shook his head.
“But you’re a doctor.”
“No, in this case I’m Daniel’s uncool dad’s equally uncool flatmate,” John said.
“You are painfully uncool,” Sherlock agreed with a smirk. Sherlock had no desire to speak to Daniel about sex, not so much because the subject was embarrassing or delicate (to Sherlock it was neither) but because he was afraid that something he didn’t want Daniel to know would slip.
How could you possible sit down with your son and tell him to be careful and always wear a condom, to keep safe from both STI:s and unwanted pregnancies, when he was around the same age you’d been when he’d been conceived? Of course Daniel knew he was the result of an accident – he wasn’t stupid – but to stress the subject that he had not been wanted…? Sherlock couldn’t bear the thought of that. Because even if every second of the pregnancy had been an anguish and a terror and even if Sherlock still regretted that night and the following nine months sometimes, Daniel had never been anything but loved.
***
Sherlock sat curled up in an uncomfortable chair that had made his buttocks go numb, staring at the door behind which he knew Joyce was, at this very moment, having their baby. He had been sitting in this particular chair for almost 40 minutes now, but he had been at the delivery ward for just over four hours. Still he’d just seen Joyce when she had been transferred between rooms.
Joyce’s mother didn’t want him in the room and these last months Joyce’s opinions had always been the same as her mother’s. Due to that they had hardly talked – less seen – each other since they’d told her parents.
When Mycroft had told their parents – because of course Mycroft’d told their parents – they had been surprisingly calm. Not at all happy, but calm. Sherlock had appreciated it since ‘calm’ was the last thing he’d been himself these month. His parents’ calmness had been safe and grounding, their promise of financial support had been invaluable. Their silent condemnation had been alienating, like he had gone from being their son to being their charity case.
His mother was sitting next to him, knitting, Sherlock had never seen the woman knit in his entire life. Charity case or not, he was so grateful for his mother at this moment. The surreal feeling of ‘This is not happening!’ that had built up during the last months was ruthlessly replaced with a feeling of ‘O my god! This is really happening!’. He had denied this for such a long time, since he’d had lifted that stupid stick from the bathroom sink. He was so not ready for this. If nothing else, his acute need for his mother at this moment felt like splendid evidence that he was not ready to be a parent himself.
The door Sherlock had been staring at for the last hour opened and the hallway was filled with the sound a crying baby. Sherlock’s mother quickly put away the knitting as Joyce’s mother came out with a dazed smile. Sherlock unfolded himself as in slow motion, their mothers very obviously exchanging some kind of dialog – probably things about gender and fingers and hair – but Sherlock felt like he was existing in a vacuum as he approached the door. Joyce’s mother squeezed his shoulder as he passed by her into the room and he managed to almost smile back at her.
The room smelled like blood and sweat and faecal matter, all of which were very unattractive by themselves and together they were even worse! That was not why Sherlock hesitated though, no it was because Joyce was holding a small package that he knew was his child.
His child.
“It’s a boy,” Joyce said in a quiet, high pitched voice, beaming under the sweat glow and Sherlock’s heart was overflown with an affection he didn’t understand.
He had a son.
Slowly he approached the bed, probably smiling just as much as Joyce was. When he finally looked down at the little child (smudgy with blood and things Sherlock not even wanted to think about) he sniffled. The surreal feeling was larger than ever before but instead of agony lurking behind the surrealism there was an undisputable feeling of relief. There was still no joy, no euphoric happiness, but a heartfelt relief and the insane belief that it would be okay.
Now was probably the time to feel scared, but he just couldn’t. This was amazing; this small boy had the superpower to wipe out fear. His hands wanted to badly to touch the little creature in Joyce arms, but it was like he was guarded by am impermeable aura.
“Sherlock….” Joyce whispered with a smile and he jumped at the sound, giving her an embarrassed smile back, “We don’t have a name.”
“You did all the work, you decide” Sherlock said breathless, feeling a bit stupid that they hadn’t thought about names but why would they had thought about that when they’d tried to forget everything else, “As long as you don’t name him after anyone in Take That.”
“But Backstreet Boys is okay?” she giggled softly.
“No,” Sherlock wasn’t sure what the names of the Backstreet Boys were and he was sure whatever name Joyce decided on it wouldn’t be worse than ‘Sherlock’. As long as the reason for the name she picked was that it was her favourite pop star.
“Do you want to hold him?”
Sherlock nodded, there was nothing else in this world he wanted more, but he was not sure he trusted his hands to hold him. Joyce seemed to trust him though – she’d always been so innocent – because she handed him the boy. At that very moment, when the weight of the small body was placed in his arms and the boy did his first attempt ever to look at him, Sherlock felt love as a father for the first time.
***
Bed time.
Maybe not for a consulting detective but for a 15-year-old and when Daniel was in London it became the same thing. John always seemed so pleased with this, it annoyed Sherlock enormously. Mostly because he used it against him when Daniel wasn’t there! Just because Daniel had curfews and Sherlock insisted on regular mealtimes didn’t mean John was allowed to nag him about sleep and food when they were alone!
“Have you brushed your teeth?” Sherlock wondered when he walked into his bedroom, finding Daniel in the process of opening his bed.
“I’m 15,” Daniel pointed out, “Not 5.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. That had not been an answer to his question and one didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to not believe him, but being Sherlock Holmes made him certain that Daniel hadn’t brushed.
“Go and brush your teeth,” Sherlock ordered.
“Your bathroom smells weird,” Daniel informed with a frown, “Like the sewer on a bad day.”
What? He was sure he had removed every trace of the faecal experiment; he must have done that, otherwise John would have called him on it. Or had he managed to rasp John down so badly that he didn’t even notice things like this anymore? Brilliant!
Not important right now, but he had to examine this when Daniel was back in Ipswich.
“Use the sink in the kitchen,” Sherlock suggested, he knew at least the kitchen was spotless.
“Tooth Waffe….” Daniel muttered, bringing his tooth brush with him.
“That insult makes no sense,” Sherlock informed him as he passed, earning him a glare.
When Daniel came back, Sherlock had crawled down under the covers of his bed with his laptop; DI Dimmock had sent him four mails that he had ignored out of spite, but just before he decided to go to bed Lestrade had texted him, asking to please answer Dimmock.
“Night,” Daniel said after getting into bed and Sherlock looked at him over the computer. A small smile crept over Sherlock’s mouth. He was a wonderful pain in the butt his son.
“You know you can come to me if you have any problems right?” Sherlock asked and after meeting his eyes for a while, Daniel smirked.
“If I screw up and get a girl pregnant you mean?”
How did he know that was exactly what he meant? Sherlock tilted his head slightly, his smile becoming a bit wider; maybe it was still hope that his son wasn’t as simple minded as most of the world after all? Or maybe he had just been painfully obvious today? Even John had managed to see how distracted he’d been.
“Not just that,” Sherlock answered, still smiling.
“Don’t worry dad, I don’t even have a girlfriend.”
“Liar,” Sherlock smirked, “You’ve been together since Saturday…maybe Friday, but since I know you were home with mum on Friday I’ll go with Saturday.”
Daniel laughed, “You’re a freak.”
“So I’ve been repeatedly told,” Sherlock nodded, “But I’m right, correct?”
“Yea, yea….” Daniel turned in his bed so he could look at his father better, “Might have been on Saturday. But it’s not a girlfriend, it’s a boyfriend.”
Sherlock narrowed his browns and scrutinised his son. Really? Well, sexual orientation was something he often got wrong, even if he had the person in front of him.
“There’s always something I get wrong,” he said easing his frown and shrugging. This really made all his pacing earlier today unnecessary. Because even though he ought to have a discussion about safe sex with him, he could not deny that it had been the pregnancy-part that had scared him the most.
“You really are a freak!” Daniel laughed and Sherlock, who had turned his attention to the screen again, had to look up, “That’s not how you’re supposed to react!”
“I’m sorry?”
“I told you I was gay and you said you got it wrong,” Daniel kept laughing, “I’m not gay, I have a girlfriend, her name is Leah. You got everything right. As always.”
“Why did you say you were gay then? And how was I supposed to react?” Sherlock wondered, actually amused and it was so wonderful to hear Daniel laugh in his presence instead of just yelling and muttering.
“I don’t know, to surprise you for once? So you should have been surprise….”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sherlock smirked, deciding not to worry about the pregnancy thing since Daniel obviously knew about it. He closed the computer and placed it on the nightstand. “Promise to disappoint you further tomorrow…and to not tell your mother about Leah.”
“How did you know I haven’t….” Daniel shook his head and smirked before turning off the light.
“Good night Daniel.”
“Good night….And dad?”
“Yes?”
“I know I can talk to you.”
Sherlock smiled in the dark; he would so put condoms in Daniel’s backpack before he left on Sunday.
Summary: Sherlock realises Daniel has a girlfriend, something that makes him a bit uneasy; remembering all to well what his first girlfriend lead to.
Earlier craziness with Sherlock as the father to a 15-year-old can be found here
***
It took Sherlock about two minutes after Daniel’s arrival to notice that something was different with his son. Mainly it was the posture; not better, not worse, but different. His mother had bought him new clothes so at first Sherlock just took it as side effect of that, but it was something else.
Oh.
Oh….
Daniel had a girlfriend.
Shit.
When did that happened?
“What?” Daniel wondered as he worked his school books out of his backpack, “I’m going to study, I promise!”
“Er….Do you want something to nibble on?” Sherlock asked, stunned by this surprising insight in his son’s life, “Or tea?”
“Eh, no?” Daniel looked at his father the same deprecatory way he always did; as if Sherlock was the most clueless person in the world.
“Okay then,” Sherlock said with a nod, “Dinner at seven.”
“Yea, yea.” Daniel was so obviously not listening that Sherlock almost felt insulted, but he closed the door to the bedroom, letting his hand stay on the scuffed door surface for a moment.
***
It felt surrealistic; like the stuff bad teenage movies were made of. The plastic stick on the bathroom sink, the thick silence, the dawning feeling of panic….The only thing missing was a pop song soundtrack.
“That can’t be right….” Sherlock said finally, “We must have done it wrong.”
Joyce sank down onto the floor, letting her forehead rest on her knees. That was not very much of a response if you asked Sherlock. He picked up the stick and looked at it, trying to see where they’d done it wrong, trying to see a way that this was not real.
“We should do it again,” Sherlock stated, placing the stick on the porcelain again, “These aren’t 100 % accurate, it must be wrong.”
Joyce looked up, his own growing panic reflected in her face, “You really think so?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, he couldn’t. There was so much hope in her voice and he wanted nothing other than say that he really did think so, but he just didn’t manage to. Instead he sat down on the floor next to her.
Damn it.
***
“Stop pacing,” John ordered him, “You’re making me stressed.”
Sherlock halted in front of the fireplace and turned around, when had John come in? He hated when that happened, it was too easy to sneak up on him when he was thinking, but it was hard to do anything about it. Either you’re focused on your surroundings or you’re focused on your mind. In the safety of his own flat, Sherlock preferred the latter. Still, John surprising – and interrupting – him was never welcome.
“What’re you thinking about?” John wondered and patted at the space next to him on the sofa. What was he thinking? No way was he going to sit down there and spill his heart. When had he ever done that John?
Oh. Stupid.
John’s smirk told him right away that the good doctor was just mocking him.
“Do teenagers have sex?” Sherlock wondered, folding his arms over his chest.
“Asks the 32-year-old father of a 15-year-old son,” John laughed.
“That was 16 years ago,” Sherlock frowned, this was not a laughing matter, “Haven’t teenagers gotten any smarter?”
“Just when it comes to computers,” John continued to smirk, “and those little iPod-thingies.”
“You’re really not helping John,” Sherlock pointed out and started his pacing again without even thinking about it.
“You haven’t told me what to help you with yet,” John pointed out and well, he was right and by now he should have gotten used to the fact that John really wanted everything verbally presented to him.
“Daniel has a girlfriend.”
“Oh!” John said with a surprised, happy smile.
“Not ‘oh!’” Sherlock did a mockery mimic of John’s perkiness “It’s not a good thing, he’s just 15!”
“Oh….” John did a horrible attempt to correct his response and he left the charade with a soft laughter, “It’s not the end of the world Sherlock, most teens in the UK have lost their virginity at 17.”
“Thank you doctor,” Sherlock snorted, John was terrible at the comforting part sometimes, “And Daniel is just 15! It’s not even legal yet!”
“Because you’re always so keen to fallow the law,” John smirked and took hold of Sherlock’s wrist as he passed by the sofa, “Girlfriend doesn’t equal sex Sherlock. I’m sure that irritatingly logic brain of yours understands that.”
“I was 16 years and 10 months when he was born,” Sherlock shook his head and tried to look through the wall, to the bed room where he knew Daniel was, “Joyce wasn’t even that….”
“Have you regretted it?” John asked as if the answer would be a simple no; like this question was going to erase all the worries and fears Sherlock felt for the prospect of becoming a grandfather before 35, for the prospect of Daniel going through everything he had gone through. John had watched too many bad films and TV-shows.
It wasn’t an easy answer, because the answer was yes. He had regretted it so many times and every time he felt so ashamed he just wanted to shoot himself. It didn’t happen so often anymore, just a few times these last couple of years, but it still happened. And it was still so painful. Every time. He hated himself every time.
“No,” he answered because John wanted him to say just that, because it was the only answer that wouldn’t make him hate himself.
***
The door to his room opened and closed; even without opening his eyes he knew it was Mycroft that had decided to invade his privacy. What about a locked door did he not understand? The marvel of Mycroft Holmes rarely descended to the family home anymore, so him being here – breaking in – must mean that Mummy or Daddy had ordered him to do so.
“Sherlock, what on earth have you done?” Mycroft wondered in a very condescending voice.
Sherlock kept his eyes and mouth closed in the vain hope that Mycroft would leave. Instead Mycroft poked him with something. Arse!
“Stop being such an over-grown baby,” Mycroft ordered, “Open your eyes and tell your big brother why you’re having the sulk of the millennium.”
He wasn’t having a sulk (and even if he did, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t even reach top 10 of the greatest sulks of this millennium), he was having a life crisis, sprinkled with panic and depression. Mycroft inability to distinguish between the situations (and his weakness when it came to resting the recent pop cultural phenomena to namedrop “the millennium” in every second sentence) was almost reason enough to open his eyes and contradict him. Almost.
“Are you trying to be difficult on purpose?”
What a stupid question Mycroft. Of course it was on purpose! This part at least…the rest had not been on purpose at all. God! How could this be? Sherlock placed both arms over his face, letting out a trembling sigh. It sounded more like a sob than a sigh though, maybe it was a sob? Well, maybe he was allowed to sob under the present circumstances.
Mycroft sat down on the bed and moved the arms from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock had a hard time remembering the last time they’d had skin-to-skin contact and for that reason only he opened his eyes. His brother looked genuinely like a concerned older brother and for once Sherlock wished that they had a different relationship than they did.
“Christ Sherlock,” Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock didn’t question how or what Mycroft reacted to because he knew that his brother knew.
“They said we were four days too late,” Sherlock said in a voice hoarse by tears, built up by panic and fear.
“What?” Something hardened in Mycroft’s voice, “Six months? Half a year? What have you two been doing?”
Sherlock looked up into the ceiling and fought off the tears efficiently. What had they been doing these last six months? Or rather these last four months since they’d found out? Gaaah! He had no idea. Everything was still so surrealistic and insane.
“Have you at least told her parents?” Mycroft pressed on, easily reaching the conclusion that the Holmes parents was oblivious of this. Sherlock didn’t manage to answer with more than a shake of his head.
“There’s always the option of adoption,” Mycroft offered as a solution. They had considered that. The doctors they’d met with had suggested the same thing, but some how, when they had allowed it to go this far….
Sherlock forced himself to sit up and when he tried to make sure there were no tears under his eyes Mycroft handed him a handkerchief. Sherlock took it, but did not use it. Instead he twisted it in his hands for a moment before looking up at his brother.
“I’m going to be a dad….” he whispered, forcing a smile that became easier for ever second he kept it up.
“Congratulation,” Mycroft said and it was impossible to say if he was sincere or not.
***
“If it worries you this much you could always talk to him,” John suggested when he cleared away the reminders of their take-out Chinese dinner, which had ended with Daniel snatching the last egg roll and disappearing into the bedroom again.
“Hm?” Sherlock stopped in the middle of pouring water in mugs. He didn’t like ordering in when Daniel was here; he actually liked cooking, but it was hard to find the time and motivation when Daniel wasn’t around. Today there had just been too much pacing (at least that was the reason John had suggested for the lack of time) to squeeze it in.
“Your fingers,” John pointed out, “You’re tapping with them; you never tap your fingers.”
Oh look! He did.
Sherlock looked down on his hand and stopped the tapping right away. Instead he finished the tea and made sure he held his hands still around the mug. It was a bit frustrating when people pointed out his flaws and emotions.
Oh…hehe…oops. God he must be obvious if John was able to do it.
“If the prospect of Daniel having sex is bothering you, talk to him,” John clarified.
“Don’t use ‘sex’ and ‘Daniel’ in the same sentence please,” Sherlock frowned.
“I’m sorry,” John smiled that terrible smile of his, telling Sherlock that he was not sorry at all but rather amused by Sherlock’s state of mind. The skull was such a better friend sometimes.
“I don’t want to talk to him about sex,” Sherlock felt repulsed by the mere thought.
“Sherlock,” John sighed, “You’re supposed to be the adult, remember?”
“Even you with your limited skill set of observation must have noticed that we don’t really communicate well,” Sherlock snorted. He hated that this was the case; he just had no idea how to talk with his son. He knew others thought he had trouble communicating period, but he didn’t care about that. He’d had problem communicating with teenagers when he had been one, so what were his chances when he just was around Daniel four days a month? Who, by the way, thought he was the dullest person in the world and wanted nothing of his company most of the time.
“No teenager communicates well,” John pointed out, “I read a study saying it was biologically impossible for parents and teenagers to understand each other.”
“You just made that up.”
“Yea, but I think I can rally up a big enough group to testify in the matter to make it statistically bearable in two- two and a half hours,” John grinned.
That might have been the first helpful and comforting thing John had said the entire evening; reminding him that all parents had troubles with their children and not just he. That his problems with Daniel wasn’t just because they never saw each other and because he still thought of himself as too young to be a father, but because teenagers were a pain in the arse. For everyone.
“He’ll think I don’t trust him,” Sherlock shook his head.
“Well, you don’t.”
“No I don’t,” Sherlock sighed, “He hasn’t a good track record for earning trust.”
That was true, but it still sucked to say it. What was it with John Watson that constantly made him say too much? Show too much? Be too much?
“Is this the best time to pretend that you do then?”
“I miss my scull,” Sherlock said with a pout, “It never asks me such difficult questions.”
“No one talked to me about sex – except awkward sex ed. in school that just talked about mechanics – and I didn’t loose my virginity until I was almost 19,” John tried.
“No one talked about sex with me either and I had a son before I was 17,” Sherlock replied, seating himself in an armchair with yet another sigh. “Can’t you talk to him?”
“Yea you see…no,” John shook his head.
“But you’re a doctor.”
“No, in this case I’m Daniel’s uncool dad’s equally uncool flatmate,” John said.
“You are painfully uncool,” Sherlock agreed with a smirk. Sherlock had no desire to speak to Daniel about sex, not so much because the subject was embarrassing or delicate (to Sherlock it was neither) but because he was afraid that something he didn’t want Daniel to know would slip.
How could you possible sit down with your son and tell him to be careful and always wear a condom, to keep safe from both STI:s and unwanted pregnancies, when he was around the same age you’d been when he’d been conceived? Of course Daniel knew he was the result of an accident – he wasn’t stupid – but to stress the subject that he had not been wanted…? Sherlock couldn’t bear the thought of that. Because even if every second of the pregnancy had been an anguish and a terror and even if Sherlock still regretted that night and the following nine months sometimes, Daniel had never been anything but loved.
***
Sherlock sat curled up in an uncomfortable chair that had made his buttocks go numb, staring at the door behind which he knew Joyce was, at this very moment, having their baby. He had been sitting in this particular chair for almost 40 minutes now, but he had been at the delivery ward for just over four hours. Still he’d just seen Joyce when she had been transferred between rooms.
Joyce’s mother didn’t want him in the room and these last months Joyce’s opinions had always been the same as her mother’s. Due to that they had hardly talked – less seen – each other since they’d told her parents.
When Mycroft had told their parents – because of course Mycroft’d told their parents – they had been surprisingly calm. Not at all happy, but calm. Sherlock had appreciated it since ‘calm’ was the last thing he’d been himself these month. His parents’ calmness had been safe and grounding, their promise of financial support had been invaluable. Their silent condemnation had been alienating, like he had gone from being their son to being their charity case.
His mother was sitting next to him, knitting, Sherlock had never seen the woman knit in his entire life. Charity case or not, he was so grateful for his mother at this moment. The surreal feeling of ‘This is not happening!’ that had built up during the last months was ruthlessly replaced with a feeling of ‘O my god! This is really happening!’. He had denied this for such a long time, since he’d had lifted that stupid stick from the bathroom sink. He was so not ready for this. If nothing else, his acute need for his mother at this moment felt like splendid evidence that he was not ready to be a parent himself.
The door Sherlock had been staring at for the last hour opened and the hallway was filled with the sound a crying baby. Sherlock’s mother quickly put away the knitting as Joyce’s mother came out with a dazed smile. Sherlock unfolded himself as in slow motion, their mothers very obviously exchanging some kind of dialog – probably things about gender and fingers and hair – but Sherlock felt like he was existing in a vacuum as he approached the door. Joyce’s mother squeezed his shoulder as he passed by her into the room and he managed to almost smile back at her.
The room smelled like blood and sweat and faecal matter, all of which were very unattractive by themselves and together they were even worse! That was not why Sherlock hesitated though, no it was because Joyce was holding a small package that he knew was his child.
His child.
“It’s a boy,” Joyce said in a quiet, high pitched voice, beaming under the sweat glow and Sherlock’s heart was overflown with an affection he didn’t understand.
He had a son.
Slowly he approached the bed, probably smiling just as much as Joyce was. When he finally looked down at the little child (smudgy with blood and things Sherlock not even wanted to think about) he sniffled. The surreal feeling was larger than ever before but instead of agony lurking behind the surrealism there was an undisputable feeling of relief. There was still no joy, no euphoric happiness, but a heartfelt relief and the insane belief that it would be okay.
Now was probably the time to feel scared, but he just couldn’t. This was amazing; this small boy had the superpower to wipe out fear. His hands wanted to badly to touch the little creature in Joyce arms, but it was like he was guarded by am impermeable aura.
“Sherlock….” Joyce whispered with a smile and he jumped at the sound, giving her an embarrassed smile back, “We don’t have a name.”
“You did all the work, you decide” Sherlock said breathless, feeling a bit stupid that they hadn’t thought about names but why would they had thought about that when they’d tried to forget everything else, “As long as you don’t name him after anyone in Take That.”
“But Backstreet Boys is okay?” she giggled softly.
“No,” Sherlock wasn’t sure what the names of the Backstreet Boys were and he was sure whatever name Joyce decided on it wouldn’t be worse than ‘Sherlock’. As long as the reason for the name she picked was that it was her favourite pop star.
“Do you want to hold him?”
Sherlock nodded, there was nothing else in this world he wanted more, but he was not sure he trusted his hands to hold him. Joyce seemed to trust him though – she’d always been so innocent – because she handed him the boy. At that very moment, when the weight of the small body was placed in his arms and the boy did his first attempt ever to look at him, Sherlock felt love as a father for the first time.
***
Bed time.
Maybe not for a consulting detective but for a 15-year-old and when Daniel was in London it became the same thing. John always seemed so pleased with this, it annoyed Sherlock enormously. Mostly because he used it against him when Daniel wasn’t there! Just because Daniel had curfews and Sherlock insisted on regular mealtimes didn’t mean John was allowed to nag him about sleep and food when they were alone!
“Have you brushed your teeth?” Sherlock wondered when he walked into his bedroom, finding Daniel in the process of opening his bed.
“I’m 15,” Daniel pointed out, “Not 5.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. That had not been an answer to his question and one didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to not believe him, but being Sherlock Holmes made him certain that Daniel hadn’t brushed.
“Go and brush your teeth,” Sherlock ordered.
“Your bathroom smells weird,” Daniel informed with a frown, “Like the sewer on a bad day.”
What? He was sure he had removed every trace of the faecal experiment; he must have done that, otherwise John would have called him on it. Or had he managed to rasp John down so badly that he didn’t even notice things like this anymore? Brilliant!
Not important right now, but he had to examine this when Daniel was back in Ipswich.
“Use the sink in the kitchen,” Sherlock suggested, he knew at least the kitchen was spotless.
“Tooth Waffe….” Daniel muttered, bringing his tooth brush with him.
“That insult makes no sense,” Sherlock informed him as he passed, earning him a glare.
When Daniel came back, Sherlock had crawled down under the covers of his bed with his laptop; DI Dimmock had sent him four mails that he had ignored out of spite, but just before he decided to go to bed Lestrade had texted him, asking to please answer Dimmock.
“Night,” Daniel said after getting into bed and Sherlock looked at him over the computer. A small smile crept over Sherlock’s mouth. He was a wonderful pain in the butt his son.
“You know you can come to me if you have any problems right?” Sherlock asked and after meeting his eyes for a while, Daniel smirked.
“If I screw up and get a girl pregnant you mean?”
How did he know that was exactly what he meant? Sherlock tilted his head slightly, his smile becoming a bit wider; maybe it was still hope that his son wasn’t as simple minded as most of the world after all? Or maybe he had just been painfully obvious today? Even John had managed to see how distracted he’d been.
“Not just that,” Sherlock answered, still smiling.
“Don’t worry dad, I don’t even have a girlfriend.”
“Liar,” Sherlock smirked, “You’ve been together since Saturday…maybe Friday, but since I know you were home with mum on Friday I’ll go with Saturday.”
Daniel laughed, “You’re a freak.”
“So I’ve been repeatedly told,” Sherlock nodded, “But I’m right, correct?”
“Yea, yea….” Daniel turned in his bed so he could look at his father better, “Might have been on Saturday. But it’s not a girlfriend, it’s a boyfriend.”
Sherlock narrowed his browns and scrutinised his son. Really? Well, sexual orientation was something he often got wrong, even if he had the person in front of him.
“There’s always something I get wrong,” he said easing his frown and shrugging. This really made all his pacing earlier today unnecessary. Because even though he ought to have a discussion about safe sex with him, he could not deny that it had been the pregnancy-part that had scared him the most.
“You really are a freak!” Daniel laughed and Sherlock, who had turned his attention to the screen again, had to look up, “That’s not how you’re supposed to react!”
“I’m sorry?”
“I told you I was gay and you said you got it wrong,” Daniel kept laughing, “I’m not gay, I have a girlfriend, her name is Leah. You got everything right. As always.”
“Why did you say you were gay then? And how was I supposed to react?” Sherlock wondered, actually amused and it was so wonderful to hear Daniel laugh in his presence instead of just yelling and muttering.
“I don’t know, to surprise you for once? So you should have been surprise….”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sherlock smirked, deciding not to worry about the pregnancy thing since Daniel obviously knew about it. He closed the computer and placed it on the nightstand. “Promise to disappoint you further tomorrow…and to not tell your mother about Leah.”
“How did you know I haven’t….” Daniel shook his head and smirked before turning off the light.
“Good night Daniel.”
“Good night….And dad?”
“Yes?”
“I know I can talk to you.”
Sherlock smiled in the dark; he would so put condoms in Daniel’s backpack before he left on Sunday.
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Date: 2011-09-14 12:29 pm (UTC)And I like it that Daniel is as clever in his own way as Sherlock. The two of them really are quite nice together.
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Date: 2011-09-14 04:17 pm (UTC)Don't tell Sherlock, but I think Daniel is more likely to be a mini-Mycroft than a mini-Sherlock. He just gets people so much better.
Thank you for reading and commenting :)
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Date: 2011-09-14 12:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-14 04:20 pm (UTC)Hmm...that sounded weird enough :P
Thank you for still reading and commenting :)
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Date: 2011-09-14 04:56 pm (UTC)I'm always thrilled to find new Sherlock!BBC writers whose work I enjoy, and I'm glad to have found your Daniel stories. But a bit of editing and checking wouldn't hurt a bit.
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Date: 2011-09-14 05:26 pm (UTC)I appreciate the criticism, I have close to no illusions that I’m good at writing in English (can’t even manage my own language haha). The reason I never ask for a beta is that it make me feel so self-absorbed and intruding, people have better things to do than being my English teacher. But if you feel up for looking it over (or know someone that do) or just feel like pointing out the most annoying errors I’d appreciate it a lot :)
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Date: 2011-09-15 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-15 08:32 am (UTC)Thank you :)
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Date: 2011-09-15 10:37 am (UTC)"The good thing about parenthood is that it actually is a team sport;" is a good example for that.
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Date: 2011-09-16 09:15 am (UTC)