The Heart (1/2)
Notes: I finally got this done; the idea has been there since I finished the very first story about Sherlock’s son Daniel. It was three parts when I started it, but after some hard work with copy-paste (and the suggestion from mygoldenbuttons) it became two.
Summary: In a world where he has a son, there is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind what Moriarty means when he says he will burn the heart out of him.
Acknowledgement: Many thanks to mygoldenbuttons for her beta-work and structural suggestion; I appreciate it a lot!
Not familiar with this AU? Master fic list.
***
They sat at the A&E waiting for…something. John didn’t know. They had been checked but John hadn’t even bothered checking his own chart; Sherlock had a cast on his right arm, John had stitches in the back of his head. Concussion and tinnitus were both such obvious side effects to being in close proximity to an explosion that it was hardly worth mentioning. John was pretty sure he was in a state of delayed shock and by the look of Sherlock, so was he. The consulting detective looked broken - cast aside.
John placed his hand on Sherlock’s right shoulder and to his surprise Sherlock placed his left hand on top of it. No matter how hard he tried, John couldn’t find anything to say. Partly because of his own state of existence, but mostly because Sherlock seemed so lost. Sherlock was a lot of things, but never lost.
From nowhere - well, obviously from somewhere but John didn’t see it - the dark haired woman who worked for Mycroft approached them. John wasn’t surprised that Mycroft knew what had happened, but he became really surprised that Sherlock got to his feet as soon as he noticed the woman.
“I need to talk to Mycroft,” Sherlock said to John, “I called him when they stitched you up…. We can drop you off at home on the way.”
“No thank you,” John declined. Last time they’d been apart this had happened and he really didn’t want to risk anything right now. Sherlock almost smiled. Just almost. It was more terrifying than comforting.
After 48 minutes - and just one stop to let Sherlock throw up outside the car - they were shown into an unmarked building on the outskirts of London. Sherlock walked in as if he was familiar with the place; still he made sure to remain two steps behind the woman who was not named Anthea.
“My God, you two look terrible,” Mycroft greeted them, honest concern radiating from him.
“You too,” Sherlock answered, walking straight up to Mycroft’s desk and placing his left hand on whatever his brother was working on at the moment, “I need you to erase my name from Daniel’s birth certificate.”
Sherlock’s voice was forced but determined. It made John’s stomach fill up with ice - God, he hadn’t thought of that. Mycroft, who, irritated, had started to move Sherlock’s hand by force, looked shocked for a split second before following through by removing the files from Sherlock.
“What on earth happened tonight?” Mycroft asked as he closed the folders.
“It’s not important,” Sherlock insisted while he backed away from the desk and started to pace the office instead.
“You’re asking me to take away your legal rights to your son,” Mycroft said, as if explaining, “You must give me a reason for that. And should you really be walking around in your condition?”
John was just thinking the exact same thing, which was scary, but he wasn’t sure that forcing Sherlock to sit down would ease his distress.
“He said he was going to burn the heart out of me,” Sherlock answered his brother, stopping for a moment to look at Mycroft in despair.
“Moriarty,” John added, just in case Mycroft had no idea who Sherlock was talking about, but Mycroft seemed to take no notice of him.
“If he said exactly that, don’t you think he already knows about Daniel?” Mycroft wondered.
This was something Sherlock didn’t seem to have considered. The little colour he had in his face disappeared and he swayed so alarmingly that John needed to save him from falling to the floor. Sherlock gripped John so hard it hurt and the weight of the detective’s body almost made John fall over too.
“I can have people in Ipswich within two hours,” Mycroft said and John could feel how Sherlock tried to regain the power of his own body. Slowly they let go of each other, but in every breath Sherlock took John could hear him fighting tears. That was probably why the only answer Mycroft got was a nod. Mycroft nodded the same way, gathered most of the papers and left the room.
As soon as the door closed Sherlock started to pace again.
“Mycroft had a point, you really shouldn’t be pacing like that,” John tried but the desperation in Sherlock’s eyes made him shut up and he seated himself instead.
“You brought the missile plans to the pool?” Mycroft wanted to know from the doorway, carrying a different file than he had left with.
“How can that be your focus?” Sherlock wondered and snatched the file as soon as Mycroft handed it to him.
“What we have on Moriarty,” Mycroft explained, “And that was a matter of national security. You can be accused of treason and labelled as a terrorist.”
“He might take my son!” Sherlock screamed on the top of his lungs, “Screw your plans! The bloody stick was empty! I’m not that stupid!”
“I have sent a car to pick them up,” Mycroft said in his characteristically calm voice as if the outburst hadn’t become him at all; John had become a bit taken aback though, “and Anthea has started the process of removing all traces of a connection between you and either of them.”
A tremble went through Sherlock’s body and he closed his eyes for a moment before handing the folder back to Mycroft.
“I have no use for this,” he whispered, clearing his throat in an attempt to make his voice steadier “Knew all of it already.”
“We’re taking them to a safe house just outside Sudbury,” Mycroft continued as he made sure everything was still in the file he’d got back, obviously trying to ignore the emotional state of his brother, “Do you want me to take you there before we transport them further?”
Sherlock nodded. John got up from the chair and took his hand to reassure him that he wasn’t alone.
“Will you accompany him there Dr Watson?”
“Yes of course,” John answered without hesitation and Sherlock squeezed his hand hard, “You’ll not?”
“Unlike my assistant, I don’t have the whole world at the tip of my fingers all the time,” Mycroft said, sounding a bit displeased with this, “So what I need to do, I need to do from here. I’ll follow when everything is settled, of course.”
“Mycroft, I….” Sherlock managed to say before he lost his voice. Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder as if he understood before walking over to his desk and picking up the phone.
“I’ll arrange a car for you. You’ll go there with the vanguard,” Mycroft said and since Sherlock didn’t respond John nodded.
Just short of two hours later John and Sherlock arrived at a small, white house outside Sudbury. John thought it looked quite nice, in need of some renovation maybe or just a bit of paint, but the garden was well kept and well, it looked cosy. Sherlock, who had spent the car ride building himself up again, brick by brick, just walked right in without so much as a glance in any direction.
There was no way Joyce and Daniel could have got there already, they had probably just been placed in the car Mycroft had sent. Still Sherlock said Daniel’s name as soon as he passed over the threshold. It scared John.
“Please sit down Sherlock,” John tried weary as Mycroft’s men (and woman) secured the house, “I have no idea how severe your concussion is and I’m really in no condition to take care of you if something happens.”
Sherlock paused for a moment in his pacing and tried to focus his gaze on John. If he hadn’t known better, John would have hugged him, but he wasn’t sure if it would make things better or worse.
“My head is fine,” Sherlock promised, John was not convinced, “Are- are you alright?”
The answer to that was probably no. They had both been discharged from the hospital, so presumably they were in the clear; but he could feel the strain of the stitches in his head and he knew it would take time before the ringing in his ears would fade (if it ever would). Not to mention that he had first and second hand experiences with both shell shock and acute stress disorder (and his own very lovely dash of PTSD that he just couldn’t wait to see what tonight’s events would bring to it) and was just waiting for Sherlock to fall over.
So the answer was no, he was very much not alright, but he couldn’t tell Sherlock that. Lying to Sherlock had never been a great idea though - mainly because it never worked. At another time he would be a bit moved that Sherlock managed to gather enough compassion for him in the middle of all this to actually ask about him. John wouldn’t have blamed him if he hadn’t.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” John said, shaking his head as much as it allowed, “But please sit down.”
“I can’t.”
There was something so definite about the way Sherlock said it that the air left John and he could feel himself deflate. After almost 15 minutes of pacing, Sherlock couldn’t do anything but sit down though. Unwillingly he fell down on the brown leather sofa where John had been sitting for a while already, nurturing the watery coffee one of Mycroft’s men had served (the woman had refused to do it, claiming it to be sexist, which John personally found even more sexist).
“Why aren’t they here yet?” Sherlock wondered in a low voice, supporting his broken arm with his healthy one. John had to really concentrate to hear what he was saying.
“I’m sure they’re on their way,” John tried, not knowing if he believed it or not, “Mycroft’s serfs didn’t reach Ipswich until around the same time we got here. It’ll take them some time to gather their stuff. Hey….Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Moriarty was in the explosion too, he’s licking his wounds right now. He doesn’t have a Mycroft who could just sweep in and lift people from their lives. You’re one step ahead.”
John leaned over and took Sherlock’s left - non casted - hand; Sherlock let him but that was also just about it. At least they had eye contact. Eye contact and some physical contact through the hands; hopefully it was grounding. Hopefully it was helping.
“If I hadn’t been bored John,” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse.
“It’s not your fault.”
Sherlock didn’t listen to him; instead he got up again and took up the pacing. After only a couple of laps in the room he had to stop and brace himself at the wall, head falling down to his chest. John got up and helped him back to the sofa and they sat there in silence until the door to the house opened.
“Where is he?” an angry female voice queried. John recognised the voice as Joyce’s and the expression on Sherlock’s face was pure relief when he jumped to his feet - way too fast - and rushed to the hall to meet them. John made sure to follow.
“Dad?!” Daniel gasped in shock as soon as he laid eyes on his father.
“God Daniel,” Sherlock whispered, right before Joyce slapped his face.
“Mum!” Daniel yelled and Sherlock just managed to stop himself from falling into the wall.
“Are you insane?” John yelled and reached for Sherlock.
“John, it’s okay,” Sherlock muttered.
“Hell it is! You have a-“ John broke off and turned back to Joyce instead, “He has concussion!”
“John, stop it,” Sherlock asked, almost pushing him away as soon as he got his balance back, “Just….”
“What the hell dad…?” Daniel still sounded shocked and he had become very pale. Did they really look that bad? John glanced at Sherlock, yes, they did actually look that bad. Sure, the blood had been cleaned from their faces, but they still had all the small, red marks that had made the clean-up necessary to begin with. Not to mention the bloodstains and dust still on their clothes and hair and Sherlock’s cast and very red eyes. Were John’s own eyes as red?
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said and with great willpower he turned his eyes away from Daniel to Joyce, “I’m so sorry….”
“Fuck you! Men in suits drag us out of our house in the middle of the night and all you have to say is that you’re sorry? What the hell have you done Sherlock?” Joyce wondered, the anger still very close to the surface, but John suspected it was to hide fear.
Joyce didn’t look at all like a woman John would pair up with Sherlock (wildly ignoring the fact that he couldn’t imagine any type of woman for Sherlock). As he had suspected, the only traces she had left on Daniel were the blond hair colour, the dark blue eyes and the fashion, but all in all she looked completely ordinary. Average height, some freckles, teeth that wouldn’t have suffered from braces but nothing you really thought about, a body that seemed to have forgotten it gave birth 15 years ago because it was too young to remember it, sparse make-up and flaked nail polish….John wondered how she looked when she smiled, if it would remove some of the tired lines around her eyes.
“Should we move into the sitting room?” John suggested, “Or the kitchen? I know there’s coffee at least....If anyone wants?”
“Yeah….Let’s….It’s….Well….” Sherlock took a step back to let Joyce and Daniel come further into the house.
When Daniel passed by into the sitting room Sherlock took the opportunity to pull him into a very tight hug. Both John and Joyce watched them in silence and for the first time tonight John felt his throat close up. The kidnapping, being strapped to a bomb, having a laser sight pointed at him, giving Sherlock permission to shot the vest and kill all of them…? None of it affected him like seeing Sherlock refuse to let go of Daniel. John had to leave the room and did so under the pretence that he was going to make some tea.
As John stepped back into the sitting room carrying a tray with steaming mugs - this kitchen was better supplied than 221b Baker Street’s - the first thing he saw was Daniel who sat on the sofa across the room from him; his dark blue eyes finding John’s, expressing pure fright and panic. Had John been a lesser man, he would have turned around and walked back into the kitchen.
Joyce was yelling at Sherlock, using the words “irresponsible” and “egoistic” and “selfish” and “dangerous” along with some less refined names that would have made Sally Donovan get her notebook. Sherlock was facing half away from John so it was hard to read his face (even more so than usual), but he just stood there and let the flood of insults wash over him. From where he stood with the tray John couldn’t tell if Sherlock was just waiting out the storm or if he actually listened to what she said. It was really hard to pretend that the fight wasn’t happening, but John had the distinct feeling he should stay out of it.
“Tea?” he asked Daniel when he placed the tray on the coffee-table. Stupid question, yes he realised that all by himself, but what else could he do? Daniel had followed him with his eyes the whole way from the kitchen door, as if he wanted to be rescued from all of this. If John could, he definitely would. Surprisingly, he got a nod for an answer and with slightly trembling hands John gave Daniel a mug.
“He- he says a man might take me,” Daniel whispered so low that John had to lean close to hear anything over the woman screaming and his ears ringing.
“He won’t let that happen,” John assured him and on impulse he placed a hand on Daniel’s back; physical contact was almost always more comforting than words. Daniel just looked down at his mug, but Sherlock’s eyes fluttered over to them for a moment and John imagined he’d seen a glimpse of gratitude before the detective’s focus went back to the woman who was verbally ripping him apart.
“Am I interrupting?”
Mycroft voice was low; still it seemed to reach every part of the room as if he’d been yelling at the top of his lungs. He was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, his lovely P.A. one step behind him and a folder in his hand, looking rather uninterested in the scene in front of him.
Sherlock turned immediately around at the sound of his brother’s voice and John felt that this was the time to remove his hand from Daniel’s back (as if Mycroft hadn’t seen it already).
“As a matter of fact you are,” Sherlock snorted.
“What’s he doing here?” Joyce asked Sherlock as if Mycroft’s mere presence insulted her. If this had a happy ending, John would have to remember to ask Sherlock about that.
“Joyce, charming as ever.” Mycroft greeted her before turning all his attention to his brother, ignoring the people on the sofa, “I can come back later if this is an inconvenient time for you Sherlock.”
“What took you so long?” Sherlock exploded, “It was hours since we left your office! And why didn’t you contact me when you’d picked them up? Or let ME explain everything? You should fire all of these imbeciles; they wouldn’t know a desk drawer from Buckingham palace! Even if they looked at the answer!”
Shocked by the outburst as he was, John was still sure that Sherlock wasn’t upset with Mycroft but rather taking the built up emotions of being yelled at and accused of being a poor parent for 30 minutes out on his brother. John had the feeling Mycroft thought the same.
“It takes some time to make people disappear when one does not have the ability to use a Fidelius Charm,” Mycroft glanced over to Daniel for the first time since announcing his presence and the boy’s mouth curved into a weak smile. John wasn’t sure, but that might just have been an inside joke between Mycroft and his nephew.
“’Make people disappear’?” Joyce echoed.
“You’re right Sherlock, I think I do need to fire them,” Mycroft said and twisted his mouth slightly, “And yes Ms Green disappear. It is the best way to ensure Daniel and your safety. Seeing as Moriarty is out to - what was it now? - burn the heart out of Sherlock, it is a reasonable assumption that he will use Daniel to do so.”
“We don’t know for sure he will,” John broke in when he realised that Daniel had become two shades whiter.
“But we do John,” Sherlock said in equal amounts of frustration and pretended self-control, “Because that’s what I would do.”
“You’d never use someone’s kid!” John said abruptly in dismay, unfortunately the look Sherlock gave him shut him up and made him shake his head instead. Recalling the conversation they’d had after the death of the old woman (and all of her neighbours) John actually wished he was more shocked.
“You creep!” Joyce cried out, “What are you?”
“Mum! Shut up!” Daniel screamed and when complete silence had settled he looked at Sherlock, “Dad….What the hell…?”
Sherlock looked at Daniel, seemingly unable to answer when he couldn’t let his overflowing emotions come out as angry ranting. To John, it was comforting that, even though Sherlock so easily and obviously could turn his feelings and emotions off when it came to strangers, it was impossible for him to do so when it came to Daniel. Maybe even Joyce.
“Daniel,” Mycroft stepped in, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he did so, “The reason you and your mother are in danger is because of your ties with your father. We are not sure Moriarty knows about your existence, but we’re not taking any chances. Therefore, I have created new identities for both of you; they’re not complete yet, given the rush, but they can be adopted right now and we’ll have them all done at noon tomorrow. Either way, starting right now, you cannot be in contact with anyone.”
“But my parents?” Joyce gasped, “I need to tell them we’re leaving and where they can get in touch with us and my job…and Daniel’s school….”
“I’m sorry, I truly am, but if we’re going to be able to ensure your safety you have to cut all ties for now. If possible, we’ll keep your house.”
“I-if possible?” Joyce stuttered.
“Yes,” Mycroft didn’t linger on the subject, “As I said, all ties must be cut. Which reminds me, Sherlock, are you sure?”
John had no idea what Mycroft was talking about; there were just too many alternatives. Of course Sherlock knew, those two had more subtitles when they spoke than a film in traditional Chinese. Sherlock, unable to keep looking at his son, turned his eyes and met John’s. John kept his gaze, wishing there was something he could do to calm Sherlock’s hapless eyes. The only thing he could think of was placing his hand on Daniel again but whatever he’d seen in Sherlock’s eyes before, it never came this time.
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was almost stable.
“If you say so,” Mycroft said and let his hand slide off his baby brother’s shoulder before turning and giving his P.A. a nod.
“All done sir,” the woman said. Sherlock closed his eyes and John got the feeling he knew what just had happened.
“Very well then,” Mycroft took the time to glance over the room, halting at Daniel, “Sherlock Holmes is no longer shown as the father to the boy Joyce Green gave birth to on the 21st of November 1994. Nor is he the legal guardian of Daniel Green and there is no record of him ever being so.”
The room stood still when Mycroft was done, he had sounded oddly detached during his short speech, even for him. As if the people he had been talking about hadn’t been his brother and his nephew. As if he had been a news reporter on the radio.
Joyce had both her hands over her mouth and her eyes slowly filled up with tears. John stared at Sherlock who still hadn’t opened his eyes and whose efforts to remain calm made him vibrate. From the corner of his eye John saw Daniel shift and his hand fell to the sofa when the boy got up.
“Daniel wait….” John tried and got up too, but Daniel was almost out of the room already. At the sound of John’s voice Sherlock’s eyelids flew open and both he and Joyce said their son’s name as he disappeared.
“Let me,” Sherlock asked in a hoarse voice as Joyce made a move to follow Daniel. They looked at each other for a moment before she nodded and Sherlock left. The room went silent again and John wished for nothing more than to have drowned Moriarty in the pool.
“Yes, should we look at this over a cup of tea perhaps?” Mycroft suggested, presenting the file to Joyce. She looked so confused and scared and - weird as it might sound - John thought it made her more beautiful.
“Yes sir,” his P.A. said, looking over at John who still stood next to the sofa behind a wall of untouched and half-full mugs, “Would you help me Dr Watson?”
“Er….” To suddenly be addressed caught John a bit off guard and the sheer brilliance of his answer made him blush. He saw no reason whatsoever for the lovely, dark haired woman to need help making tea (and the six mugs already on the table should speak for the redundancy of making more), but her gaze told him that this was not as much a question as it was an order disguised as such. Women…. He crammed all the mugs on the tray and followed her to the kitchen.
In the kitchen most of the men - not the woman - who had arrived at the house in one of the three cars lingered; drinking tea and coffee of their own. John started to agree with Sherlock, these people should be fired. A glare from Mycroft’s P.A. made them all scatter.
“Where are you going to place them?” John asked as a macabre way to make small talk.
“Just make the tea Dr Watson,” the woman said with a sad smile. The scene in the sitting room seemed to have affected her too. Good.
“Do it yourself,” John muttered as he poured the cold tea and coffee into the sink. To his great surprise, she did, so he focused on placing the mugs in the dishwasher.
“If- When we get Moriarty….Can you undo what you just did?” John wondered as the water started to boil.
“Yes,” she said and gave him an encouraging smile, “Bureaucracy is never permanent if you don’t want it to be.”
That was good. He had the feeling he would need to remind Sherlock about that from time to time in the future, but he really hoped this would just be over soon. Who knew, maybe one of the bodies that would be found at the scene of the explosion was Moriarty and all of this had been unnecessary?
“Don’t you think people will contact Sherlock when Daniel stops showing up at school and practices?” John asked as they refilled the tray with mugs.
“Dr Watson,” the woman shook her head as if telling him that he shouldn’t think about it. Hopefully that meant they’d take care of it, but how that would be done exactly was hard for John to imagine. There must be printed lists with Sherlock’s name and phone number scattered all around Ipswich, in case of emergencies or just for bake sales circles (not that Sherlock would ever have attended such a thing, but still). Joyce’s parents must have the information; the parents of Daniel’s teammates knew how to get in touch with him. There were just so many way in which Sherlock had been Daniel’s father that just erasing his name from some legal documents wouldn’t be sufficient.
“You’re not going to let me go out there and overhear anything, are you?” John asked, feeling more tired than annoyed. He couldn’t really be annoyed, Mycroft probably knew exactly what he was doing and it wasn’t John who had to give up his life or his family. No, he had no right to be annoyed if he didn’t get the information he wanted.
“No.”
“Can I go outside?”
“Yes,” the woman nodded and lifted the tray, “Stay in the backyard though.”
“If Sherlock….” John started and she gave him another nod. John forced a smile, of course she would understand what he tried to say; working for Mycroft must have trained her to hear the implications behind everything.
When the kitchen door opened John heard Joyce crying; he might not like the woman but hearing her cry was still heart-breaking since he knew what she was crying about. He turned and walked away under the observant gaze of Mycroft’s P.A..
It was still dark outside and John realised that he had no idea what time it was. He had no way to find it out either, not out here. Like time mattered right now. His body was bruised and beaten; the effect of the painkillers he had been given was ebbing away and if he allowed himself, he would probably realise that he was deadly tired. He couldn’t complain, for all the same reasons he couldn’t be annoyed; he didn’t lose anything, he didn’t give anything up. His scars from this evening would just be physical.
He couldn’t complain. He wouldn’t.
“Dr Watson.”
John spun around and saw Mycroft. Christ, that made his head spin.
“What time is it?” John wondered, he felt like he needed something to tie up reality to.
“Just after five,” Mycroft said without even looking at a watch.
“Have Sherlock and Daniel come back?”
“Joyce has joined them.”
That was good John guessed; as long as she didn’t slap Sherlock again.
“We are going to place them in a car in about an hour, to travel some miles before rush hours.” Mycroft informed him in the same radio-news-caster voice as he used before, “You and Sherlock will be transported back to London soon afterwards.”
“Will it be safe?” John hadn’t even thought about it, but what sort of threat would he and Sherlock be living under from now on?
“We think so, but your security will be increased.”
“Have you told Sherlock?”
“I haven’t spoken to him since he left the room, but I will brief him between Daniel’s departure and yours. If you need anything,” Mycroft said and gave him a card with a phone number scribbled by hand, “Sherlock had this number on his phone, but I think both of your phones are beyond saving at this point. Not to mention, you’re likelier to call me.”
John wasn’t sure what he would ever be able to tell Mycroft that the man didn’t already know, but being trusted with a number that probably went straight to Mycroft’s phone was yet another proof of the severity of the situation.
“He’s going to survive this, right?” John met Mycroft’s eyes for the first time. The silence grew longer until John realised the answer wasn’t going to come. Which was a terrible answer in itself. Damn it.
“You can come in if you like,” Mycroft offered. John nodded and followed.
Just before six o’clock Sherlock, Joyce and Daniel came back to the sitting room. Joyce held one arm over Daniel’s shoulder, as if that alone would protect him from the world, and the other hand constantly caressed his hair. They both looked puffy eyed and though Daniel did his best to look brave, Joyce still sobbed. Sherlock, who walked two steps behind them, had completely dry eyes but he looked like he hadn’t sleep a second in his entire life.
“Are you ready?” Mycroft asked. Stupid question, how could one be ready for this? All three nodded though and when they were about to go out into the hall Joyce freely let go of Daniel. Sherlock placed his non-casted hand on Daniel’s cheek and Daniel leaned in to it. Joyce sobbed.
“I promise I’ll fix this,” Sherlock said, John could barely hear him. Well, it wasn’t really meant for him to hear, was it?
Daniel attacked Sherlock with a tight hug. Sherlock sucked in air as if the hug hurt him. It probably did, seeing he had been in an explosion just hours before, but he put his arms around his son and placed a kiss on Daniel’s blond hair.
“I love you,” Sherlock whispered into the blond locks.
“I love you too dad,” Daniel answered into Sherlock’s dusty shirt and for the first time tonight John heard Sherlock sob. Stifled, but none the less. Then he let him go, his eyes trying to say so much more than his voice would allow him, and Daniel was once again taken by Joyce.
Mycroft opened the door.
“Joyce….” Sherlock said after clearing his throat.
“Take care Sher….” Joyce answered with a smile that seemed to take all of her last strength.
Mycroft followed Joyce and Daniel out of the house and to the car while Sherlock remained in the doorway. John stepped up next to Sherlock on the threshold and placed his hand on Sherlock’s lower back. Again, physical contact was of more comfort than words. He could feel Sherlock tremble under the thin fabric of the shirt, hard to tell if it was due to the physical or the psychological stress the man had endured - and still endured - these last hours.
Daniel turned around just as he was about to get in the car and waved. John raised his hand and did the same - it suddenly dawned on him that he didn’t know when he was going to see the boy he had grown rather fond of again - but Sherlock kept a steady grip on his casted arm, concentrating hard on fighting back the tears.
***
Part 2
Summary: In a world where he has a son, there is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind what Moriarty means when he says he will burn the heart out of him.
Acknowledgement: Many thanks to mygoldenbuttons for her beta-work and structural suggestion; I appreciate it a lot!
Not familiar with this AU? Master fic list.
***
They sat at the A&E waiting for…something. John didn’t know. They had been checked but John hadn’t even bothered checking his own chart; Sherlock had a cast on his right arm, John had stitches in the back of his head. Concussion and tinnitus were both such obvious side effects to being in close proximity to an explosion that it was hardly worth mentioning. John was pretty sure he was in a state of delayed shock and by the look of Sherlock, so was he. The consulting detective looked broken - cast aside.
John placed his hand on Sherlock’s right shoulder and to his surprise Sherlock placed his left hand on top of it. No matter how hard he tried, John couldn’t find anything to say. Partly because of his own state of existence, but mostly because Sherlock seemed so lost. Sherlock was a lot of things, but never lost.
From nowhere - well, obviously from somewhere but John didn’t see it - the dark haired woman who worked for Mycroft approached them. John wasn’t surprised that Mycroft knew what had happened, but he became really surprised that Sherlock got to his feet as soon as he noticed the woman.
“I need to talk to Mycroft,” Sherlock said to John, “I called him when they stitched you up…. We can drop you off at home on the way.”
“No thank you,” John declined. Last time they’d been apart this had happened and he really didn’t want to risk anything right now. Sherlock almost smiled. Just almost. It was more terrifying than comforting.
After 48 minutes - and just one stop to let Sherlock throw up outside the car - they were shown into an unmarked building on the outskirts of London. Sherlock walked in as if he was familiar with the place; still he made sure to remain two steps behind the woman who was not named Anthea.
“My God, you two look terrible,” Mycroft greeted them, honest concern radiating from him.
“You too,” Sherlock answered, walking straight up to Mycroft’s desk and placing his left hand on whatever his brother was working on at the moment, “I need you to erase my name from Daniel’s birth certificate.”
Sherlock’s voice was forced but determined. It made John’s stomach fill up with ice - God, he hadn’t thought of that. Mycroft, who, irritated, had started to move Sherlock’s hand by force, looked shocked for a split second before following through by removing the files from Sherlock.
“What on earth happened tonight?” Mycroft asked as he closed the folders.
“It’s not important,” Sherlock insisted while he backed away from the desk and started to pace the office instead.
“You’re asking me to take away your legal rights to your son,” Mycroft said, as if explaining, “You must give me a reason for that. And should you really be walking around in your condition?”
John was just thinking the exact same thing, which was scary, but he wasn’t sure that forcing Sherlock to sit down would ease his distress.
“He said he was going to burn the heart out of me,” Sherlock answered his brother, stopping for a moment to look at Mycroft in despair.
“Moriarty,” John added, just in case Mycroft had no idea who Sherlock was talking about, but Mycroft seemed to take no notice of him.
“If he said exactly that, don’t you think he already knows about Daniel?” Mycroft wondered.
This was something Sherlock didn’t seem to have considered. The little colour he had in his face disappeared and he swayed so alarmingly that John needed to save him from falling to the floor. Sherlock gripped John so hard it hurt and the weight of the detective’s body almost made John fall over too.
“I can have people in Ipswich within two hours,” Mycroft said and John could feel how Sherlock tried to regain the power of his own body. Slowly they let go of each other, but in every breath Sherlock took John could hear him fighting tears. That was probably why the only answer Mycroft got was a nod. Mycroft nodded the same way, gathered most of the papers and left the room.
As soon as the door closed Sherlock started to pace again.
“Mycroft had a point, you really shouldn’t be pacing like that,” John tried but the desperation in Sherlock’s eyes made him shut up and he seated himself instead.
“You brought the missile plans to the pool?” Mycroft wanted to know from the doorway, carrying a different file than he had left with.
“How can that be your focus?” Sherlock wondered and snatched the file as soon as Mycroft handed it to him.
“What we have on Moriarty,” Mycroft explained, “And that was a matter of national security. You can be accused of treason and labelled as a terrorist.”
“He might take my son!” Sherlock screamed on the top of his lungs, “Screw your plans! The bloody stick was empty! I’m not that stupid!”
“I have sent a car to pick them up,” Mycroft said in his characteristically calm voice as if the outburst hadn’t become him at all; John had become a bit taken aback though, “and Anthea has started the process of removing all traces of a connection between you and either of them.”
A tremble went through Sherlock’s body and he closed his eyes for a moment before handing the folder back to Mycroft.
“I have no use for this,” he whispered, clearing his throat in an attempt to make his voice steadier “Knew all of it already.”
“We’re taking them to a safe house just outside Sudbury,” Mycroft continued as he made sure everything was still in the file he’d got back, obviously trying to ignore the emotional state of his brother, “Do you want me to take you there before we transport them further?”
Sherlock nodded. John got up from the chair and took his hand to reassure him that he wasn’t alone.
“Will you accompany him there Dr Watson?”
“Yes of course,” John answered without hesitation and Sherlock squeezed his hand hard, “You’ll not?”
“Unlike my assistant, I don’t have the whole world at the tip of my fingers all the time,” Mycroft said, sounding a bit displeased with this, “So what I need to do, I need to do from here. I’ll follow when everything is settled, of course.”
“Mycroft, I….” Sherlock managed to say before he lost his voice. Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder as if he understood before walking over to his desk and picking up the phone.
“I’ll arrange a car for you. You’ll go there with the vanguard,” Mycroft said and since Sherlock didn’t respond John nodded.
Just short of two hours later John and Sherlock arrived at a small, white house outside Sudbury. John thought it looked quite nice, in need of some renovation maybe or just a bit of paint, but the garden was well kept and well, it looked cosy. Sherlock, who had spent the car ride building himself up again, brick by brick, just walked right in without so much as a glance in any direction.
There was no way Joyce and Daniel could have got there already, they had probably just been placed in the car Mycroft had sent. Still Sherlock said Daniel’s name as soon as he passed over the threshold. It scared John.
“Please sit down Sherlock,” John tried weary as Mycroft’s men (and woman) secured the house, “I have no idea how severe your concussion is and I’m really in no condition to take care of you if something happens.”
Sherlock paused for a moment in his pacing and tried to focus his gaze on John. If he hadn’t known better, John would have hugged him, but he wasn’t sure if it would make things better or worse.
“My head is fine,” Sherlock promised, John was not convinced, “Are- are you alright?”
The answer to that was probably no. They had both been discharged from the hospital, so presumably they were in the clear; but he could feel the strain of the stitches in his head and he knew it would take time before the ringing in his ears would fade (if it ever would). Not to mention that he had first and second hand experiences with both shell shock and acute stress disorder (and his own very lovely dash of PTSD that he just couldn’t wait to see what tonight’s events would bring to it) and was just waiting for Sherlock to fall over.
So the answer was no, he was very much not alright, but he couldn’t tell Sherlock that. Lying to Sherlock had never been a great idea though - mainly because it never worked. At another time he would be a bit moved that Sherlock managed to gather enough compassion for him in the middle of all this to actually ask about him. John wouldn’t have blamed him if he hadn’t.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” John said, shaking his head as much as it allowed, “But please sit down.”
“I can’t.”
There was something so definite about the way Sherlock said it that the air left John and he could feel himself deflate. After almost 15 minutes of pacing, Sherlock couldn’t do anything but sit down though. Unwillingly he fell down on the brown leather sofa where John had been sitting for a while already, nurturing the watery coffee one of Mycroft’s men had served (the woman had refused to do it, claiming it to be sexist, which John personally found even more sexist).
“Why aren’t they here yet?” Sherlock wondered in a low voice, supporting his broken arm with his healthy one. John had to really concentrate to hear what he was saying.
“I’m sure they’re on their way,” John tried, not knowing if he believed it or not, “Mycroft’s serfs didn’t reach Ipswich until around the same time we got here. It’ll take them some time to gather their stuff. Hey….Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Moriarty was in the explosion too, he’s licking his wounds right now. He doesn’t have a Mycroft who could just sweep in and lift people from their lives. You’re one step ahead.”
John leaned over and took Sherlock’s left - non casted - hand; Sherlock let him but that was also just about it. At least they had eye contact. Eye contact and some physical contact through the hands; hopefully it was grounding. Hopefully it was helping.
“If I hadn’t been bored John,” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse.
“It’s not your fault.”
Sherlock didn’t listen to him; instead he got up again and took up the pacing. After only a couple of laps in the room he had to stop and brace himself at the wall, head falling down to his chest. John got up and helped him back to the sofa and they sat there in silence until the door to the house opened.
“Where is he?” an angry female voice queried. John recognised the voice as Joyce’s and the expression on Sherlock’s face was pure relief when he jumped to his feet - way too fast - and rushed to the hall to meet them. John made sure to follow.
“Dad?!” Daniel gasped in shock as soon as he laid eyes on his father.
“God Daniel,” Sherlock whispered, right before Joyce slapped his face.
“Mum!” Daniel yelled and Sherlock just managed to stop himself from falling into the wall.
“Are you insane?” John yelled and reached for Sherlock.
“John, it’s okay,” Sherlock muttered.
“Hell it is! You have a-“ John broke off and turned back to Joyce instead, “He has concussion!”
“John, stop it,” Sherlock asked, almost pushing him away as soon as he got his balance back, “Just….”
“What the hell dad…?” Daniel still sounded shocked and he had become very pale. Did they really look that bad? John glanced at Sherlock, yes, they did actually look that bad. Sure, the blood had been cleaned from their faces, but they still had all the small, red marks that had made the clean-up necessary to begin with. Not to mention the bloodstains and dust still on their clothes and hair and Sherlock’s cast and very red eyes. Were John’s own eyes as red?
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said and with great willpower he turned his eyes away from Daniel to Joyce, “I’m so sorry….”
“Fuck you! Men in suits drag us out of our house in the middle of the night and all you have to say is that you’re sorry? What the hell have you done Sherlock?” Joyce wondered, the anger still very close to the surface, but John suspected it was to hide fear.
Joyce didn’t look at all like a woman John would pair up with Sherlock (wildly ignoring the fact that he couldn’t imagine any type of woman for Sherlock). As he had suspected, the only traces she had left on Daniel were the blond hair colour, the dark blue eyes and the fashion, but all in all she looked completely ordinary. Average height, some freckles, teeth that wouldn’t have suffered from braces but nothing you really thought about, a body that seemed to have forgotten it gave birth 15 years ago because it was too young to remember it, sparse make-up and flaked nail polish….John wondered how she looked when she smiled, if it would remove some of the tired lines around her eyes.
“Should we move into the sitting room?” John suggested, “Or the kitchen? I know there’s coffee at least....If anyone wants?”
“Yeah….Let’s….It’s….Well….” Sherlock took a step back to let Joyce and Daniel come further into the house.
When Daniel passed by into the sitting room Sherlock took the opportunity to pull him into a very tight hug. Both John and Joyce watched them in silence and for the first time tonight John felt his throat close up. The kidnapping, being strapped to a bomb, having a laser sight pointed at him, giving Sherlock permission to shot the vest and kill all of them…? None of it affected him like seeing Sherlock refuse to let go of Daniel. John had to leave the room and did so under the pretence that he was going to make some tea.
As John stepped back into the sitting room carrying a tray with steaming mugs - this kitchen was better supplied than 221b Baker Street’s - the first thing he saw was Daniel who sat on the sofa across the room from him; his dark blue eyes finding John’s, expressing pure fright and panic. Had John been a lesser man, he would have turned around and walked back into the kitchen.
Joyce was yelling at Sherlock, using the words “irresponsible” and “egoistic” and “selfish” and “dangerous” along with some less refined names that would have made Sally Donovan get her notebook. Sherlock was facing half away from John so it was hard to read his face (even more so than usual), but he just stood there and let the flood of insults wash over him. From where he stood with the tray John couldn’t tell if Sherlock was just waiting out the storm or if he actually listened to what she said. It was really hard to pretend that the fight wasn’t happening, but John had the distinct feeling he should stay out of it.
“Tea?” he asked Daniel when he placed the tray on the coffee-table. Stupid question, yes he realised that all by himself, but what else could he do? Daniel had followed him with his eyes the whole way from the kitchen door, as if he wanted to be rescued from all of this. If John could, he definitely would. Surprisingly, he got a nod for an answer and with slightly trembling hands John gave Daniel a mug.
“He- he says a man might take me,” Daniel whispered so low that John had to lean close to hear anything over the woman screaming and his ears ringing.
“He won’t let that happen,” John assured him and on impulse he placed a hand on Daniel’s back; physical contact was almost always more comforting than words. Daniel just looked down at his mug, but Sherlock’s eyes fluttered over to them for a moment and John imagined he’d seen a glimpse of gratitude before the detective’s focus went back to the woman who was verbally ripping him apart.
“Am I interrupting?”
Mycroft voice was low; still it seemed to reach every part of the room as if he’d been yelling at the top of his lungs. He was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, his lovely P.A. one step behind him and a folder in his hand, looking rather uninterested in the scene in front of him.
Sherlock turned immediately around at the sound of his brother’s voice and John felt that this was the time to remove his hand from Daniel’s back (as if Mycroft hadn’t seen it already).
“As a matter of fact you are,” Sherlock snorted.
“What’s he doing here?” Joyce asked Sherlock as if Mycroft’s mere presence insulted her. If this had a happy ending, John would have to remember to ask Sherlock about that.
“Joyce, charming as ever.” Mycroft greeted her before turning all his attention to his brother, ignoring the people on the sofa, “I can come back later if this is an inconvenient time for you Sherlock.”
“What took you so long?” Sherlock exploded, “It was hours since we left your office! And why didn’t you contact me when you’d picked them up? Or let ME explain everything? You should fire all of these imbeciles; they wouldn’t know a desk drawer from Buckingham palace! Even if they looked at the answer!”
Shocked by the outburst as he was, John was still sure that Sherlock wasn’t upset with Mycroft but rather taking the built up emotions of being yelled at and accused of being a poor parent for 30 minutes out on his brother. John had the feeling Mycroft thought the same.
“It takes some time to make people disappear when one does not have the ability to use a Fidelius Charm,” Mycroft glanced over to Daniel for the first time since announcing his presence and the boy’s mouth curved into a weak smile. John wasn’t sure, but that might just have been an inside joke between Mycroft and his nephew.
“’Make people disappear’?” Joyce echoed.
“You’re right Sherlock, I think I do need to fire them,” Mycroft said and twisted his mouth slightly, “And yes Ms Green disappear. It is the best way to ensure Daniel and your safety. Seeing as Moriarty is out to - what was it now? - burn the heart out of Sherlock, it is a reasonable assumption that he will use Daniel to do so.”
“We don’t know for sure he will,” John broke in when he realised that Daniel had become two shades whiter.
“But we do John,” Sherlock said in equal amounts of frustration and pretended self-control, “Because that’s what I would do.”
“You’d never use someone’s kid!” John said abruptly in dismay, unfortunately the look Sherlock gave him shut him up and made him shake his head instead. Recalling the conversation they’d had after the death of the old woman (and all of her neighbours) John actually wished he was more shocked.
“You creep!” Joyce cried out, “What are you?”
“Mum! Shut up!” Daniel screamed and when complete silence had settled he looked at Sherlock, “Dad….What the hell…?”
Sherlock looked at Daniel, seemingly unable to answer when he couldn’t let his overflowing emotions come out as angry ranting. To John, it was comforting that, even though Sherlock so easily and obviously could turn his feelings and emotions off when it came to strangers, it was impossible for him to do so when it came to Daniel. Maybe even Joyce.
“Daniel,” Mycroft stepped in, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he did so, “The reason you and your mother are in danger is because of your ties with your father. We are not sure Moriarty knows about your existence, but we’re not taking any chances. Therefore, I have created new identities for both of you; they’re not complete yet, given the rush, but they can be adopted right now and we’ll have them all done at noon tomorrow. Either way, starting right now, you cannot be in contact with anyone.”
“But my parents?” Joyce gasped, “I need to tell them we’re leaving and where they can get in touch with us and my job…and Daniel’s school….”
“I’m sorry, I truly am, but if we’re going to be able to ensure your safety you have to cut all ties for now. If possible, we’ll keep your house.”
“I-if possible?” Joyce stuttered.
“Yes,” Mycroft didn’t linger on the subject, “As I said, all ties must be cut. Which reminds me, Sherlock, are you sure?”
John had no idea what Mycroft was talking about; there were just too many alternatives. Of course Sherlock knew, those two had more subtitles when they spoke than a film in traditional Chinese. Sherlock, unable to keep looking at his son, turned his eyes and met John’s. John kept his gaze, wishing there was something he could do to calm Sherlock’s hapless eyes. The only thing he could think of was placing his hand on Daniel again but whatever he’d seen in Sherlock’s eyes before, it never came this time.
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was almost stable.
“If you say so,” Mycroft said and let his hand slide off his baby brother’s shoulder before turning and giving his P.A. a nod.
“All done sir,” the woman said. Sherlock closed his eyes and John got the feeling he knew what just had happened.
“Very well then,” Mycroft took the time to glance over the room, halting at Daniel, “Sherlock Holmes is no longer shown as the father to the boy Joyce Green gave birth to on the 21st of November 1994. Nor is he the legal guardian of Daniel Green and there is no record of him ever being so.”
The room stood still when Mycroft was done, he had sounded oddly detached during his short speech, even for him. As if the people he had been talking about hadn’t been his brother and his nephew. As if he had been a news reporter on the radio.
Joyce had both her hands over her mouth and her eyes slowly filled up with tears. John stared at Sherlock who still hadn’t opened his eyes and whose efforts to remain calm made him vibrate. From the corner of his eye John saw Daniel shift and his hand fell to the sofa when the boy got up.
“Daniel wait….” John tried and got up too, but Daniel was almost out of the room already. At the sound of John’s voice Sherlock’s eyelids flew open and both he and Joyce said their son’s name as he disappeared.
“Let me,” Sherlock asked in a hoarse voice as Joyce made a move to follow Daniel. They looked at each other for a moment before she nodded and Sherlock left. The room went silent again and John wished for nothing more than to have drowned Moriarty in the pool.
“Yes, should we look at this over a cup of tea perhaps?” Mycroft suggested, presenting the file to Joyce. She looked so confused and scared and - weird as it might sound - John thought it made her more beautiful.
“Yes sir,” his P.A. said, looking over at John who still stood next to the sofa behind a wall of untouched and half-full mugs, “Would you help me Dr Watson?”
“Er….” To suddenly be addressed caught John a bit off guard and the sheer brilliance of his answer made him blush. He saw no reason whatsoever for the lovely, dark haired woman to need help making tea (and the six mugs already on the table should speak for the redundancy of making more), but her gaze told him that this was not as much a question as it was an order disguised as such. Women…. He crammed all the mugs on the tray and followed her to the kitchen.
In the kitchen most of the men - not the woman - who had arrived at the house in one of the three cars lingered; drinking tea and coffee of their own. John started to agree with Sherlock, these people should be fired. A glare from Mycroft’s P.A. made them all scatter.
“Where are you going to place them?” John asked as a macabre way to make small talk.
“Just make the tea Dr Watson,” the woman said with a sad smile. The scene in the sitting room seemed to have affected her too. Good.
“Do it yourself,” John muttered as he poured the cold tea and coffee into the sink. To his great surprise, she did, so he focused on placing the mugs in the dishwasher.
“If- When we get Moriarty….Can you undo what you just did?” John wondered as the water started to boil.
“Yes,” she said and gave him an encouraging smile, “Bureaucracy is never permanent if you don’t want it to be.”
That was good. He had the feeling he would need to remind Sherlock about that from time to time in the future, but he really hoped this would just be over soon. Who knew, maybe one of the bodies that would be found at the scene of the explosion was Moriarty and all of this had been unnecessary?
“Don’t you think people will contact Sherlock when Daniel stops showing up at school and practices?” John asked as they refilled the tray with mugs.
“Dr Watson,” the woman shook her head as if telling him that he shouldn’t think about it. Hopefully that meant they’d take care of it, but how that would be done exactly was hard for John to imagine. There must be printed lists with Sherlock’s name and phone number scattered all around Ipswich, in case of emergencies or just for bake sales circles (not that Sherlock would ever have attended such a thing, but still). Joyce’s parents must have the information; the parents of Daniel’s teammates knew how to get in touch with him. There were just so many way in which Sherlock had been Daniel’s father that just erasing his name from some legal documents wouldn’t be sufficient.
“You’re not going to let me go out there and overhear anything, are you?” John asked, feeling more tired than annoyed. He couldn’t really be annoyed, Mycroft probably knew exactly what he was doing and it wasn’t John who had to give up his life or his family. No, he had no right to be annoyed if he didn’t get the information he wanted.
“No.”
“Can I go outside?”
“Yes,” the woman nodded and lifted the tray, “Stay in the backyard though.”
“If Sherlock….” John started and she gave him another nod. John forced a smile, of course she would understand what he tried to say; working for Mycroft must have trained her to hear the implications behind everything.
When the kitchen door opened John heard Joyce crying; he might not like the woman but hearing her cry was still heart-breaking since he knew what she was crying about. He turned and walked away under the observant gaze of Mycroft’s P.A..
It was still dark outside and John realised that he had no idea what time it was. He had no way to find it out either, not out here. Like time mattered right now. His body was bruised and beaten; the effect of the painkillers he had been given was ebbing away and if he allowed himself, he would probably realise that he was deadly tired. He couldn’t complain, for all the same reasons he couldn’t be annoyed; he didn’t lose anything, he didn’t give anything up. His scars from this evening would just be physical.
He couldn’t complain. He wouldn’t.
“Dr Watson.”
John spun around and saw Mycroft. Christ, that made his head spin.
“What time is it?” John wondered, he felt like he needed something to tie up reality to.
“Just after five,” Mycroft said without even looking at a watch.
“Have Sherlock and Daniel come back?”
“Joyce has joined them.”
That was good John guessed; as long as she didn’t slap Sherlock again.
“We are going to place them in a car in about an hour, to travel some miles before rush hours.” Mycroft informed him in the same radio-news-caster voice as he used before, “You and Sherlock will be transported back to London soon afterwards.”
“Will it be safe?” John hadn’t even thought about it, but what sort of threat would he and Sherlock be living under from now on?
“We think so, but your security will be increased.”
“Have you told Sherlock?”
“I haven’t spoken to him since he left the room, but I will brief him between Daniel’s departure and yours. If you need anything,” Mycroft said and gave him a card with a phone number scribbled by hand, “Sherlock had this number on his phone, but I think both of your phones are beyond saving at this point. Not to mention, you’re likelier to call me.”
John wasn’t sure what he would ever be able to tell Mycroft that the man didn’t already know, but being trusted with a number that probably went straight to Mycroft’s phone was yet another proof of the severity of the situation.
“He’s going to survive this, right?” John met Mycroft’s eyes for the first time. The silence grew longer until John realised the answer wasn’t going to come. Which was a terrible answer in itself. Damn it.
“You can come in if you like,” Mycroft offered. John nodded and followed.
Just before six o’clock Sherlock, Joyce and Daniel came back to the sitting room. Joyce held one arm over Daniel’s shoulder, as if that alone would protect him from the world, and the other hand constantly caressed his hair. They both looked puffy eyed and though Daniel did his best to look brave, Joyce still sobbed. Sherlock, who walked two steps behind them, had completely dry eyes but he looked like he hadn’t sleep a second in his entire life.
“Are you ready?” Mycroft asked. Stupid question, how could one be ready for this? All three nodded though and when they were about to go out into the hall Joyce freely let go of Daniel. Sherlock placed his non-casted hand on Daniel’s cheek and Daniel leaned in to it. Joyce sobbed.
“I promise I’ll fix this,” Sherlock said, John could barely hear him. Well, it wasn’t really meant for him to hear, was it?
Daniel attacked Sherlock with a tight hug. Sherlock sucked in air as if the hug hurt him. It probably did, seeing he had been in an explosion just hours before, but he put his arms around his son and placed a kiss on Daniel’s blond hair.
“I love you,” Sherlock whispered into the blond locks.
“I love you too dad,” Daniel answered into Sherlock’s dusty shirt and for the first time tonight John heard Sherlock sob. Stifled, but none the less. Then he let him go, his eyes trying to say so much more than his voice would allow him, and Daniel was once again taken by Joyce.
Mycroft opened the door.
“Joyce….” Sherlock said after clearing his throat.
“Take care Sher….” Joyce answered with a smile that seemed to take all of her last strength.
Mycroft followed Joyce and Daniel out of the house and to the car while Sherlock remained in the doorway. John stepped up next to Sherlock on the threshold and placed his hand on Sherlock’s lower back. Again, physical contact was of more comfort than words. He could feel Sherlock tremble under the thin fabric of the shirt, hard to tell if it was due to the physical or the psychological stress the man had endured - and still endured - these last hours.
Daniel turned around just as he was about to get in the car and waved. John raised his hand and did the same - it suddenly dawned on him that he didn’t know when he was going to see the boy he had grown rather fond of again - but Sherlock kept a steady grip on his casted arm, concentrating hard on fighting back the tears.
***
Part 2