Sherlock and Son

Mary is dead and there is nothing John can do about it. He's got to move on, he's got Charlotte, his daughter, to think about. Life was alright, calm, maybe even peaceful. Until one day something turns up that will change life as him and Sherlock know it.


2. Chapter 2

John awoke with a start. His heart was pounding loudly in his chest. He looked over to the other side of the bed, Mary wasn’t there. Where was she?
And then he remembered. A tear formed in his eyes but he blinked quickly and wiped it away. Mary was gone. And there was nothing he could do about it. It hadn’t been the first time he had dreamt about her. The first few weeks after her funeral he had thought about nothing else, and if he had time to sleep he imagined he would have dreamt about her as well, not that he had any time to sleep. Not with Charlotte to look after. John sat up and looked around his old room. A few days after Mary had passed away the Father and daughter had moved back into Baker Street. Mrs Hudson insisted he returned and even Sherlock  thought it would be good to having his best friend and  god-daughter living back with him. If truth be told Sherlock missed John, and now he was home with Charlotte he was much happier.
Since Mary had died John’s ears had become far more sensitive in general. He was more alert to the sound of her crying especially of a night time. Apparently a woman's hearing has evolved so they can pick up on higher sounds so they can hear when their baby cries. In the absence of a Mother, or even a woman in Charlotte's life, looking after her has fallen to John. Happily to accept the challenge John cared for her and loved her enough for both him and Mary.
Since Charlotte was now coming up to three months old she didn’t cry as much as she did when Mary first died. As stupid as it seems, it's like she knew there was something different, it's like she knew she wasn't in her Mother's arms. There was no sound. He strained his eyes in the dark of the bedroom; he could see his baby in her cot at the bottom of his bed sleeping soundly. He was about to go back to sleep when he heard a voice. There were two voices, well, he thought, it was obviously not Charlotte talking. He struggled to make out what the voices were saying. He climbed out of his bed slowly careful not to wake Charlotte; she was a nightmare to get back to bed. He crept past her cot and pressed his ear to his door. He sighed in relief, he could just about make out Sherlock’s voice but not what he was saying or who he was talking to.
“Oh don’t pout Sherlock, you know Mummy hates it when you frown,” Mycroft sighed. He was sat down in the arm chair closest to the fire place. It was the only place in Sherlock’s flat that wasn’t piled up with baby rubbish, old books and junk but saying that he had already had to push a pile of Sherlock’s papers to the floor in order to sit down. He rested his umbrella against the fire place and crossed his left leg over the right leg as he normally did.
“Shut up Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled bending down to pick up his papers. He began rearranging them again to how they were and muttering angrily to himself.
“Let me guess you’re thinking?” Mycroft sighed taking a sip of his tea. He placed the cup and saucer back down on the table on top of a pile of rubbish.
“I was thinking before your stupidity interrupted me,” Sherlock snapped, he quickly picked Mycroft’s cup and saucer and shoved it back into his hands.
“Oh please, I am the smart one Sherlock,” he reminded him snatching the cup back from him and placing it careful on his lap keeping hold of it with his left hand.
“So you say, but if you are so smart, why have you not solved the case yet?” Sherlock sneered.
“Because I am not like you, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him. “I do not waste my running around wearing stupid hats and long dark trench coats solving petty crimes with my lover.” he sneered.
“I would hardly call murder a petty crime!” he declared. He glared at Mycroft who in return raised his eyebrows. “And John is not my lover,” he added quickly.
“So go on then brother; if I remember correctly it was you who summoned me. Why is it that you have called me here? I know how much you dislike my company so I can assume it is not on the ground of pleasure.”
“You assume correctly. One of the petty cases I am working on is the murder of a teenage girl.”
“And you have not solved it yet?”
“Oh no, I have, I just have some concerns regarding some of the information I have, that’s all.”
“What do you want?”
“I want information on a man called Fredrick Kendall, ex-mob, I believe.”
“Well if he’s ex-mob what use us he to you?” Mycroft asked.
“Next to none, but I am interested in his daughters,”
“Why, has one of them taken your fancy? It’s a bit of a risk courting an ex-mob’s daughter but whatever takes your fancy. I take it you and John are no more?”
“John and I are not a couple, his wife has only just died and besides he is looking after Charlotte. I don’t wish to consort with these particular young ladies, because if I’m right, which I am, they are murderers! Wait!” he said holding up his hand.
“What?” Mycroft questioned.
“Ssshhh!” he hissed. Sherlock threw himself against the wall. He put his finger to his lips. Mycroft frowned and shook his head in disgust. Sherlock moved towards the door remaining against the wall at all times. He slowly extended his hand.
“There is someone in there,” he mouthed to Mycroft. Quickly Sherlock grabbed hold of the handle and pulled the door open; John came tumbling out onto the floor. He fell like a sack of potatoes onto the floor in a bundle.
“What the hell Sherlock?” John grumbled picking himself up off of the floor. He winced as he flexed his right arm, he diagnosed a mild sprain; he’d take some paracetamol in a minute.
“Good morning John,” Mycroft said brightly. “How are you and how the devil is my little Charlotte?” he asked.
“She’s good,” John replied. “She’s sleeping at the moment, thank goodness,”
“I hope we didn’t wake you,”
“No it’s alright, I needed to get up anyway, normally Charlotte wakes me up much earlier but she’s been sleeping for longer now.” he replied. John glanced around the room, he looked at Sherlock who was tidying his papers and then at Mycroft, he looked down at his hand. “You’re drinking tea?” he observed.
“Yes,” Mycroft replied, slightly confused. Mycroft wasn’t like normal people, his mind worked in a way that others couldn’t understand. He found talking to Sherlock hard at the best of times but talking to man with a mind such as Dr Watson’s was next to impossible for him.
“Did you make it here?” John questioned.
“Oh heavens no, I bring my own tea with me. Firstly my brother will not allow me to use the kettle and secondly I dislike the taste your tea bags leave in my mouth. So I bring my own along with my own cup and saucer.”
“Don’t take it personally, I’m not allowed to use the kettle either,” John muttered. “I’m not even allowed to use it to make Charlotte’s bottles!”
“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly making John jump slightly. “Enough of the moaning,”
“I’m not moaning, I’m just saying,” John replied.
“You really didn’t have to spy John; you could have come out and listened.” Sherlock interrupted, he ignored his last comment and sat back down in his arm chair.
“I wasn’t spying!” John insisted.
“So what were you doing?” Mycroft asked out of curiosity.
“Things,” John replied quickly. He thought the Holmes brothers had forgotten about him falling onto the floor, but then he remembered, the Holmes brothers forgot nothing. He was embarrassed that they had caught him spying, especially because they were two of the most smart and powerful men in the country and they had caught him spying on their conversation like a child. John knew that he was usually the punch line of the Holmes’ jokes and being caught spying wasn’t going to help his confidence.
“Things?” both Sherlock and Mycroft said at the same time. They were both confused as to what John meant by ‘things’.
“Doctor’s things, you wouldn’t understand,” John replied. They both gave John a similar look expressing their disgust at being accused of not understanding something; they saw it as an insult to their intelligent and as a challenge. “I’ll just come and sit down. As you were,”
“Where was I?” Sherlock asked Mycroft.
“You and John are not lovers and you do not wish to court murderers,” John looked up in shock at Mycroft. Why were they talking about their relationship?
“Ah yes, we are not a couple and I have no intention of associating myself with either of the surviving Kendall girls!”
“So what do you think happened to the littlest Kendall of them all?” Mycroft asked.
“Oh she’s not the littlest Kendall.”
“A bastard child?” Mycroft asked.
“Most likely several of them, Mothered by prostitutes, one should imagine.”

"The mob do love a good prostitute," Mycroft agreed.

"I can't imagine why, if sexually transmitted diseases and infections are anything to go by these women have gone round a bit," Sherlock added. 
“Does anyone want a biscuit? I’ve got some in the kitchen; I’ll go and get them,” John said quickly. He stood up and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Go on tell me, why is it you believe the sisters to be murderers?” Mycroft asked not noticing John had left the room.
“Why tell you when I can show you,” Sherlock said. He too hasn’t notice that his best friend and roommate had left the room.
They both stood up in sync. Mycroft lifted his umbrella and placed it under his left arm. Sherlock excused himself quickly and hurried into his room to fetch his coat, hat and shoes. He returned a moment later ready to go and in a matter of minutes both brothers were ready to go. The door closed softly behind them. A second later John called into them.
“We don’t have any chocolate ones, Sherlock eats them as soon as I buy them,” he chuckled. “But we do have plain shortbread,” John returned into the room carrying a tray of shortbread biscuits. He looked around the empty room. “Un-be-bloody-leavable!” he sighed. He threw the plate of biscuits onto the table, not caring that the crumbs might spill onto Sherlock’s papers. He sat down in his chair and rested his head in his hands. They had gone, just like that, they had left him. But on the other hand it was nice to have the place to himself. He thought of all the things he could get done with Sherlock out of his hair for an hour, that’s how long he predicted it would take for the Holmes boys to do their business before returning home, that's ten minutes to solve the murder and fifty minutes to commute, thank god London was so busy. John grabbed his laptop and sat back down. He was going to get all of his paperwork up to date and maybe there would be some time left over for a quick game of solitaire before Charlotte woke up again. He opened the silver Apple Mac and pressed the on button, it took a few moments for it to load up. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the keyboard whilst he waited.
“WA!” a sharp cry yelped. John growled loudly. He recognised the cry, it belonged to his daughter. She had woken up much earlier than he had anticipated and was now screaming to be fed.
“Oh baby, baby, baby,” John sighed loudly. He threw his laptop back onto the chair and rushed into his bedroom. He leant over her cot and his heart melted as he saw Charlotte sat up and was looking up at him with her large green eyes.
“Hello little one,” John said softly. He picked her up from her cot and hugged her tightly. She giggled and tugged fondly on his pyjama top. “Shall we get you dressed?” he asked her. Even though she never replied he kept talking to her. One day he would ask her a question and she would answer back, her voice would be like Mary’s and they would be so happy. They could talk for hours together because she was his little girl; she was his life, his world and the best thing that ever happened to him. He got Charlotte dressed, then he placed her back in her cot with a toy for her to play with whilst he got dressed. John had a hospital appointment to go to this morning with Charlotte and he had to get going quickly if he was going to catch a cab before rush hour started. “Come on baby,” John said gently. He picked her up and placed her in her buggy which was in the corner of the living room. “Right, are we ready to go?” he asked her. She said nothing but looked back at him and that was enough to let him know that they were ready to go. He locked the front door behind him and carried the buggy down the stairs. He said goodbye to Mrs Hudson and was out the door.

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