5 Conversations, 7 Meetings and Several Unexpected Gifts (5/?)
anonymous
September 2 2010, 11:12:32 UTC
When he walks into 221b and almost trips over a book, Detective Inspector Lestrade is not expecting to have a baby shoved in his face.
“Keep an eye on her, for a second, could you?” John says, “Sherlock’s locked himself in the bathroom and I think he had seven pints of blood with him. Sorry about the book, Sherlock’s been reading it to her.”
Lestrade blinks. Not all of that information is surprising. He has long since grown used to being greeted in strange ways, but never before has he been greeted with a child.
He accepts her, holding her gently. He’s dealt with his brother’s kids before, so he’s probably not going to make a fool of himself. She reaches for his face with one hand and burbles at him in the disconnected syllables of baby-speak that probably mean something like ‘why is your face all scratchy?’
There is a splashing noise from the bathroom and John sighs before he walks out.
“Right,” Lestrade says, lowering himself down onto the sofa. “Hey.” He wasn’t prepared for a baby. He always took a few deep breaths before he entered Baker Street, but that was so he could handle Sherlock, not a child. He took a second to realign his mind and turned her round so that her back was resting against his chest. “I’m Lestrade... Greg. I’m Greg. Your Uncle Greg, I suppose.” He bounces his knees slightly and she burbles again. There is another strange noise from the bathroom. “Look. Things around here are going to be strange, well... things around here are going to be insane most of the time and surreal the rest. So you should probably know - when you can talk... and use a phone. If you ever...” He glances up at the door again to make sure that Sherlock and John are still safely (or not so safely) in the bathroom. “When you need something, or when they’re being worse than usual. You should call me. Any time, right?” She burbles and he sighs.
He’s not the sort to insert himself into people’s lives like that, but he’s always felt sort of responsible for Sherlock. And he can’t forget the first time he met the girl, in her carry chair next to her parents’ bodies. Sherlock’s not ever going to be a model parent and John’s got his hands full already. The kid needs someone.
He wonders why he’s decided it has to be him.
“Sounds like they might be a while,” he says, leaning down to snag the book he’d almost tripped over on his way in. “How about we read something?” He looks at the cover. “Common Poisons and their Effects?”
He glances back at the child.
“There’s no hope for you, is there.”
*
“I,” Harry Watson announces as she walks through the door, “am an Aunt. This calls for champagne.”
“Are we celebrating the abrupt disruption of our lives or the brutal murder of the child’s parents?” Sherlock asks from where he is lying on the sofa, eyes closed, hands steepled, his usual ‘thinking’ pose. She blinks. “I only ask because I believe it’s traditional to make a toast with champagne and I like to be prepared.”
“Harry...” John says, walking in from the kitchen. “You didn’t say you were coming.”
“That’s because I haven’t come to see you, I’ve come to meet my niece.”
The niece is duly brought out and cooed over before Sherlock walks over and takes her away.
“You’re stunting her mental growth with all that baby-talk,” he says, returning to the sofa and letting her lie on his chest.
John and Harry share a look, before looking back to the sofa.
“Keep an eye on her, for a second, could you?” John says, “Sherlock’s locked himself in the bathroom and I think he had seven pints of blood with him. Sorry about the book, Sherlock’s been reading it to her.”
Lestrade blinks. Not all of that information is surprising. He has long since grown used to being greeted in strange ways, but never before has he been greeted with a child.
He accepts her, holding her gently. He’s dealt with his brother’s kids before, so he’s probably not going to make a fool of himself. She reaches for his face with one hand and burbles at him in the disconnected syllables of baby-speak that probably mean something like ‘why is your face all scratchy?’
There is a splashing noise from the bathroom and John sighs before he walks out.
“Right,” Lestrade says, lowering himself down onto the sofa. “Hey.” He wasn’t prepared for a baby. He always took a few deep breaths before he entered Baker Street, but that was so he could handle Sherlock, not a child. He took a second to realign his mind and turned her round so that her back was resting against his chest. “I’m Lestrade... Greg. I’m Greg. Your Uncle Greg, I suppose.” He bounces his knees slightly and she burbles again. There is another strange noise from the bathroom. “Look. Things around here are going to be strange, well... things around here are going to be insane most of the time and surreal the rest. So you should probably know - when you can talk... and use a phone. If you ever...” He glances up at the door again to make sure that Sherlock and John are still safely (or not so safely) in the bathroom. “When you need something, or when they’re being worse than usual. You should call me. Any time, right?” She burbles and he sighs.
He’s not the sort to insert himself into people’s lives like that, but he’s always felt sort of responsible for Sherlock. And he can’t forget the first time he met the girl, in her carry chair next to her parents’ bodies. Sherlock’s not ever going to be a model parent and John’s got his hands full already. The kid needs someone.
He wonders why he’s decided it has to be him.
“Sounds like they might be a while,” he says, leaning down to snag the book he’d almost tripped over on his way in. “How about we read something?” He looks at the cover. “Common Poisons and their Effects?”
He glances back at the child.
“There’s no hope for you, is there.”
*
“I,” Harry Watson announces as she walks through the door, “am an Aunt. This calls for champagne.”
“Are we celebrating the abrupt disruption of our lives or the brutal murder of the child’s parents?” Sherlock asks from where he is lying on the sofa, eyes closed, hands steepled, his usual ‘thinking’ pose. She blinks. “I only ask because I believe it’s traditional to make a toast with champagne and I like to be prepared.”
“Harry...” John says, walking in from the kitchen. “You didn’t say you were coming.”
“That’s because I haven’t come to see you, I’ve come to meet my niece.”
The niece is duly brought out and cooed over before Sherlock walks over and takes her away.
“You’re stunting her mental growth with all that baby-talk,” he says, returning to the sofa and letting her lie on his chest.
John and Harry share a look, before looking back to the sofa.
They can’t help but laugh.
*
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