Fic: One More Miracle (1/11)
Title: One More Miracle (1/11)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Sherlock/John, Mycroft Holmes, Mummy Holmes, Harry Watson, OFC
Warning: None
Rating: R
Summary: Six weeks ago, Sherlock went to finish off Mrs Moriarty - leaving John and their daughter behind. Again. This time, though, John's the one with the secret, and John's getting tired of waiting for Sherlock Holmes. Part Three of the Heart ‘Verse.
A/N: Thanks to Kizzia for the Brit-pick and to earlgreytea68 for the beta. And here it is, the much fabled and ballyhooed Heart3. I hope you find it worth the wait.
One More Miracle
Chapter One
There were times when Mycroft Holmes would have rather done anything but occupy his “minor” position within the British government. Up to and including actually occupying what would be in fact a minor position within the British government.
The truth of Mycroft’s position was that it could only be termed as “minor” in the strictest sense of the word, because Mycroft was, in fact, answerable to any number of ministries and offices throughout not only London, but embassies and international organizations of numerous nations besides. He often thought of himself as the linchpin, the binding force, the voice of reason in a world that tended toward anarchy. He read all, he saw all, and if he did not actually control all, he at least understood a great deal of what other men only saw in parts.
Mycroft Holmes was minor, yes, in that the power he was able to wield was quite limited. But he was also the complete picture, and that made him very powerful indeed. Many powerful men claim to see the entire picture. Few do. Mycroft let them think they understood their actions, and as long as those actions didn’t infringe too much on the overall warp and weave of the human tapestry, he allowed them to continue thinking so.
The problem with Mycroft’s position was that it meant that not knowing was a failure. For any other office within any other governmental structure, not knowing would have been something one blamed on others: for Mycroft, there was no one to blame, because it was his job to know. There was no piece of information he was not allowed to have.
It made him the obvious point of contact during Sherlock’s years away. If there was something Sherlock needed to know in order to complete his attempt to destroy Moriarty’s web, then it could be assumed that Mycroft knew it. And if there was something Sherlock needed to know about the health and welfare of John Watson during Sherlock’s time away - then Sherlock could be assured that Mycroft would know it as well.
“You knew,” said Sherlock calmly to Mycroft, the day he returned to London and found John in a coma, and a daughter he’d never known waiting for him at 221B.
Mycroft had known about Emily. Mycroft had chosen not to tell Sherlock. It had been a difficult decision on his part, to keep Emily’s existence a secret from her father, but one he based on his long history with his brother. And then there was John’s own belief and trust that Sherlock’s mission would be that much more difficult if he’d known she existed. Of course, John had thought Sherlock was dead, had been speaking metaphorically of the difficulty in Sherlock’s decision to jump from the top of St Bart’s if he’d known of the pregnancy…but Mycroft had long since learned to make logical leaps in such matters.
Besides, Mycroft agreed. For Sherlock to leave behind John was one thing. John was…well, John. He had suffered love and loss and would undoubtedly mourn and move on with his life. Mycroft knew that Sherlock hoped to return and find John waiting - but it was more important to Sherlock that he return and find John, no matter his circumstances.
But to leave behind Emily - Mycroft did not think his brother had the strength. If Sherlock knew about Emily, he would return to London and he would forget the men trying to kill him and his and they would all die for it. Mycroft, holding a newborn Emily in his arms for the first time, standing in the weathered little flat on Baker Street, had made the decision to simply never tell Sherlock a thing about her, and in doing so, save them all.
It was easier for Sherlock not to know what he missed. Easier for Mycroft, too, for a time, and he stayed away until that first Christmas, when John insisted he be part of her life. Pulled him into the role of the doting uncle, and the little girl had him wrapped around her finger before New Year’s Day.
Mycroft often envied Sherlock his ignorance.
Which was perhaps why he would have greatly rather not known that Sherlock had, in fact, known about her all along. Had played them all for fools. And Mycroft had never realized that when Sherlock asked about John, he had expected more than the answer “John is well”.
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, standing in his office. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, hair a bit longer than normal. Four weeks on from the fire in the cottage, the burned tinge to his skin had faded, and his breathing was easier - but he still held himself stiffly, as though he were pushing himself through the motions.
Mycroft walked past his brother. It was early morning and there was much to do; he didn’t have time for the games Sherlock played. Sherlock could just wait. Mycroft sat at his desk and opened the files and read them, frowning, scratched his name and initials by the tabbed marks, and then set them aside. He folded his hands and looked up at his brother, waiting impatiently, rocking from foot to foot.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft coldly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”
“I’m going off the grid.”
Mycroft didn’t blink. “I wasn’t aware that this required an announcement. You’ve gone off the grid before.”
“This is different,” said Sherlock. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, and gave it a long look before tossing it lightly in his hand. He set the mobile on Mycroft’s desk, nudging it until it was perfectly in line with the rest of the items. “When did you last see John and Emily?”
Mycroft stared at the mobile. “Four days ago. Mummy has decided that Emily would benefit from regular instruction in ballet.”
Sherlock said nothing.
“I understand she’s quite accomplished for only a few weeks along. The kitten follows her around everywhere.”
Sherlock nodded. “And…John?”
Mycroft shrugged, knowing perfectly well that the movement would annoy Sherlock. “He appeared to be in good spirits.”
“Did he ask after me?”
“I did not give him the chance. But he seemed as if he knew that I would bring you up.”
Sherlock waited, his shoulders back, his eyes anywhere but Mycroft’s face. Mycroft wondered how long it would take before Sherlock asked. Only a few moments, as it turned out.
“Did he take the letter?”
“No,” said Mycroft. “I left it for him. I cannot be sure he picked it up.”
“He wouldn’t have, not while you were in the room,” said Sherlock, and turned to reach for his scarf.
It was Sherlock’s indifference that seemed to trigger Mycroft’s sudden burst of anger. “You’ll be happy to know that John opens his laptop at least once a day and sits in front of it, and although he hasn’t actually typed anything, this shows marked improvement from when he simply stared out of the window all day. I believe he’s at last resigned to your inability to sustain a relationship when all the cards are on the table.”
“Sod off, Mycroft.”
Mycroft shrugged. “You asked.”
“It’s not-”
“If you say it’s not your fault, Sherlock Holmes, I will have armed guards escort you from the premises and never lift a single finger to help you ever again,” said Mycroft coldly. “You had ample opportunity to fix this mess you’ve created.”
“I didn’t know, Mycroft.”
“Oh, Sherlock.”
“Oh, fine, I knew about Emily, of course I knew about Emily. The moment I stepped off the roof at Bart’s, I knew about Emily. I didn’t know that John couldn’t feel the bond. If he had, he would have known it was all a trick, that I was still alive. He was supposed to know, Mycroft.”
“You were going to break the bond,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock said nothing. He leaned forward on Mycroft’s desk and waited, his eyes focused squarely on his brother, accusation pouring off of him.
You knew about Emily too, little brother. And you never said, and you still left.
Mycroft turned back to his paperwork. “I am very busy, Sherlock. And I believe you have a plane to catch.”
“There will be another flight,” said Sherlock indifferently.
“Will there?” asked Mycroft innocently, and Sherlock glared at him.
“I’m giving you one responsibility, Mycroft. One. Watch over them.”
“And that is exactly what I have done,” said Mycroft sharply. “Kept them safe from you in the same way I kept you safe from them. It is a sad fact of life that in order to keep all of you safe, you have decided that you must be kept apart. Fools, the lot of you. You should have taken John with you.”
“And leave Emily behind?”
“I meant four years ago. You should have trusted him, Sherlock. He would have gone to the ends of the earth with you, he would have kept your secret and helped you. You know what he is capable of doing - you’ve known it all along. I think you might even love him for it-”
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Mycroft. It only makes you look idiotic.”
“I will keep them safe, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “But don’t for one moment believe that I’m keeping them safe for you.”
Sherlock turned away, and Mycroft watched his younger brother’s shoulders shake as Sherlock struggled.
“I’m going to end this,” said Sherlock as he reached for his coat. “When you see John, tell him that I’m tired.”
“Tired,” echoed Mycroft.
“He read the letter; he’ll understand,” said Sherlock.
“And then what? Once it’s over. Back to the estate, to beg for John’s forgiveness?”
Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck. “No. He’s already told me that it’s not his forgiveness I need.”
*
John woke in the wide bed, eyes springing open in the sunlight. He breathed for a few moments, let himself settle and his body acclimate to the daylight, and quietly began to assess himself.
Respiration, a bit fast for having just woken without nightmares, but perhaps not so surprising given the circumstances of the previous few weeks. Circulation, a bit slow; his fingers were cold, despite being curled under the warm duvet.
Bond, strong, a settled knot just under his heart. John knew people liked to think of the bond as a tangible thing, a string connecting two people together, but John was a doctor and knew that bonds had no corporeal forms. And yet he could feel the quiet pull, the sense that Sherlock was out there, alive, moving and breathing and going about his day. When he thought of Sherlock, he felt the quiet warmth, a round, soft glow that made his limbs relax and his heart settle.
John pushed himself out of bed, feeling startlingly awake. A glance at the clock confirmed that he hadn’t overslept, and yet he felt better rested than he had in months. Perhaps it was that he felt the bond much more strongly that morning; perhaps it was the warmth in the day.
John showered and dressed. He shaved, carefully, and realized that he was humming, and with that realization, that he was…happy.
“Daddy!” called out Emily when he reached the dining room, where breakfast was laid out on the sideboard. John had resisted the rigors of a formal breakfast when they’d arrived, but Emily was captivated by the idea of something a little fancier than cold cereal or toast with jam, and Aurora was ready to indulge her granddaughter in anything the little girl desired. There were some battles that John didn’t particularly want to fight. Breakfast was one of them - and anyway, John had a weakness for poached eggs on toast.
“Good morning, Em,” said John as the little girl stood up on her chair to give him a hug and a wet kiss. “Fruit, please.”
“I ate a banana,” said Emily, and she pulled back and wrinkled her nose. “You smell funny.”
“I think your grandmother put mango shampoo in my shower,” said John, and Emily made a face.
“I heard that,” said Aurora Holmes, without looking up from her newspaper. “Emily, we do not stand on chairs.”
“Yuck,” said Emily, and sat back down with a bounce. “Mangos are horrible.”
“I agree,” John told her, and went to fetch his own plate. The poached eggs looked perfect, but he passed over them in favor of toast and an apple. Aurora eyed the plate as he sat down.
“The eggs not to your liking?”
“I feel like an apple,” said John. “Good morning, Aurora.”
“Good morning, John,” said Aurora, and she turned a page. “I rather thought Emily and I would have a walk in the woods this morning. Care to join us?”
“I have writing to do.”
“Hmm,” said Aurora, and John had the idea that Aurora knew exactly how much writing John had not done in previous mornings. She turned to look at John, and he thought he saw her nostrils flare, just barely. “Mango shampoo, was it?”
“Or something,” said John with a shrug. “I didn’t read the label, I just used it.”
“No matter,” said Aurora. “We’ll see you for lunch, if you don’t want to join our excursion. Emily, be a dear and ring for your father’s tea.”
Emily bounced up on her knees and reached across the table for the little bell, which she rang with great enthusiasm, almost knocking out one of the candlesticks. One of the maids appeared within moments, bearing a teapot and a little pitcher of milk. She poured the tea; John thought she spent a half minute too long lingering at his shoulder. It took a pointed glare from Aurora before the maid left the room.
John reached for the tea, but had barely taken a sip when he felt his stomach begin to roll. The room spun and his thoughts swirled in his head. For a horrible, terror-inducing moment, John thought he was going to be sick right then and there at the breakfast table.
Aurora’s voice cut through, the former morning haughtiness cut by the sudden concern. “John? Are you unwell?”
John blinked and set the cup back down on the table. He pressed his hands into the wood, felt the wood seem to press back up at him, and tried to breathe the nausea down. He didn’t dare answer Aurora - it would require opening his mouth, and he tried to remember the last time he’d felt this ill…
Oh.
Oh.
Without even thinking about it, John zeroed in on the bond. Please, God, no. Let him be alive.
And there it sat, comfortable, solid, strong and Sherlock, and John thought he felt the sweat actually materialize on his brow.
“Daddy?”
John looked up from the tea to his daughter, sitting across from him. She looked lost and ethereal, all in one go, and John was instantly reminded of the last time he’d been sick from his perfectly normal, non-sweetened tea, and how the first words out of his mouth were something he’d instantly felt the need to apologize for saying.
“Sorry, baby,” said John, and it was so close to that moment in the kitchen in 221B nearly four years before that the laughter rolled right out of him, and he laughed and laughed and laughed until tears were pouring out of his eyes as quickly as the giggles escaped from his throat.
“Oh, dear,” he heard Aurora say, and John tried to sit up, but couldn’t quite manage it with the laughter shaking him from head to toe. He heard Emily say something, and Aurora respond, and then the door closed, and Aurora pulled him to sitting up. He had one very quick glimpse of her concerned face before she slapped him, rather hard, on his cheek.
Had John not been hysterical with laughter, he might have hit her back. Instead, his mouth dropped open with shock, and he rubbed his cheek ruefully.
“Good Christ, Aurora!”
“Well,” said Aurora loftily. “I have no smelling salts handy, and you were clearly unable to control yourself, and so as needs must.”
“How badly have you been wanting to do that, anyway?” asked John. He could still feel the giggles bubbling, but it wasn’t quite as pressing now. He rubbed his cheek as he eyed his tea, and then scanned the rest of the table for sugar.
“It varies from day to day,” said Aurora. “Now. I don’t suppose you’re going to share your amusement, are you?”
John thought about it, and then shook his head. He spied the sugar near Aurora’s plate, and reached for it. “Where’s Emily?”
“Somewhere,” said Aurora impatiently, and she frowned as she watched John drop three sugars in his tea. “You don’t take sugar with your tea.”
“Perhaps I fancy a change.”
Aurora frowned, watching him, and then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. John!”
John sighed. Leave it to a Holmes to put things together quickly… “Please don’t.”
“Oh…I…” Aurora covered her mouth with her hands. “I won’t say a thing.”
“Good. Then let’s pretend there isn’t a thing to say.”
Aurora sat on her chair, quivering. John lifted the tea cautiously, and when his stomach didn’t appear to stage another rebellion, began to drink.
The sugared tea was better than he remembered, and John didn’t think he needed much more confirmation than that.
“It was here, wasn’t it?” asked Aurora, her voice equal measures of excitement and caution, and John shook his head.
“Aurora…”
“Yes, of course it was,” continued Aurora, growing in excitement. “You haven’t had a heat since, and that was six weeks ago - ah! Not mango shampoo at all, that’s just your scent beginning to shift a bit, isn’t it? Reacting with the shampoo, no doubt. I thought you looked different this morning, you came in and I said to myself, Aurora, there is a man who is at home in himself, I think today is going to be quite special.”
John groaned and put down his tea. “Aurora.”
Aurora lifted her hands. “I won’t say a word. I haven’t said a word! I’ll pop off right now and Emily and I will go walking in the woods and perhaps we’ll have a little discussion about the birds and bees and butterflies.”
“Fine,” said John, giving up. “Just…fine.”
Aurora leaned over and squeezed John’s shoulder, and let her hand rest there a moment. “Do…do you want me to ring Mycroft?”
John tensed. “Why?”
“He does know where Sherlock is,” said Aurora. “He could pass along a message.”
John shook his head. “No.”
Aurora faltered. “No?”
“Not yet,” amended John. He paused. “Aurora, I appreciate it, but…”
“Of course,” said Aurora, and she pulled her hand back from John’s shoulder. “We’ll see you for lunch then, won’t we?”
John nodded, and waited until Aurora had left the room before burying his head in his hands.
Pregnant. Again.
John felt the giggles try to escape, but this time the hysterics didn’t return. Just as well - he didn’t relish the idea of anyone returning and giving him another slap to snap him out of it. Ridiculous enough to be forty years old and pregnant for the second time.
And it was ridiculous. John had never really believed the superstition that alphas and omegas were the most fertile of combinations, with every heat resulting in pregnancy - because there were always exceptions, particularly in more recent years with the creation of birth controls and suppressants. And it didn’t matter if you were an alpha and omega, sometimes people just weren’t genetically compatible with each other.
But John and Sherlock together were two for three now - three heats, two pregnancies, and John wondered how the hell they’d managed to dodge the proverbial bullet on their first heat together.
Maybe because one of them hadn’t left immediately afterwards. That was a rather grim thought.
John rested his hand on his stomach, just below the knot of his bond. Not corporeal, no. But…no less present. He’d felt it with Emily, and wanted desperately to believe that it was Sherlock, that Sherlock was alive and well and that everything he’d seen that day at St Bart’s was a magic trick. That his one miracle was Sherlock coming home.
He was wrong, and then he was right, and here he was again, feeling the bond, and wondering.
Except…Sherlock was alive. He had no doubt of that now. Mycroft would have told them otherwise. The bond he felt - that was Sherlock, and not the new baby. John felt that as strongly as he did anything else.
John breathed, felt his hand rise and fall above his stomach, and stood up carefully, waiting for the nausea to return. It didn’t.
Mycroft would know where Sherlock was - Aurora was correct about that. One call to Mycroft, and just a few words, and within a day or two, Sherlock would know, and come racing back, and…
Then what? Reconciliation, recrimination, arguments and tears and maybe a punch or two. And then they’d fall into bed together and they would ignore the larger issues (“Why did you lie to me?” “Why did you run from me?”) and the baby would be born and they’d go on ignoring the issues and maybe live the rest of their lives that way.
That wasn’t what John wanted. Not really. He wasn’t going to call for Sherlock with a cry for help, pull him away from the last task he’d ignored for so long. Sorry, Mrs Moriarty, can’t play your game, my John needs me by his side, helpless omega, you understand.
Helpless omega, John’s arse.
John left the dining room and went upstairs. Emily was playing on the stairs, jumping from one to the other, cheerfully dismantling her braids with one hand while she held onto the railing with the other.
“Gran said it’s a secret,” she told her father accusatorily.
“What’s a secret?” asked John.
“Why you were laughing. I wanted to know the joke,” explained Emily, and John knelt in front of her.
“I wish I knew,” said John, and kissed Emily’s forehead while she frowned and made a face.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she complained. “Why were you laughing if you didn’t know the joke?”
“Because,” John told her. “I didn’t know the joke.”
Emily frowned at him. “You’re weird.”
“Thank God for that,” said John, and tousled his daughter’s hair. “I’ll see you at lunch, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Emily, and continued hopping down the stairs.
The maids had been through the room while John had been down for breakfast. His bed was neatly made, the towels hung in the lavatory to dry. His pajamas were folded and slipped under his pillow, exactly as he preferred, and John thought he could smell lavender and thyme in the air. It was meant to be pleasant, but John wondered how he’d ever found it anything but cloying, and thought he ought to mention it to Aurora, so that she could instruct the maids not to use it in his rooms again.
For the next few months, anyway.
The letter was on the top shelf in the wardrobe; John pulled the envelope down and sat on the bed to open it. A single sheet of paper, covered in Sherlock’s handwriting; John held it in his hands, unfolded, and thought about reading it. He’d only read it once, and then he’d folded it and put it on the top shelf under the jumpers and tried to forget all about it. It wasn’t as though he’d memorized it, not on a single reading, but small phrases remained in his mind, curling around each other and twisting slightly, and John was sure he didn’t remember them in quite the same way that they were actually written.
Of course Sherlock was in contact with Mycroft; of course Mycroft was in contact with him. John should never have doubted that the two brothers who professed such animosity toward each other would cling to the other in adversity. John supposed he’d never stood a chance to come between them - not that he wanted to, at any time.
And now…a letter. It was more than he’d had before, John supposed. He could have picked up his mobile and rung Mycroft, told him he had a message for Sherlock, and trusted that Sherlock would receive it. “I’m pregnant.” “The suppressants weren’t the only thing to fail.” “Come home.”
And Sherlock would. John had no doubt about that - he’d have come home without fail, without finishing his job, because he hadn’t with Emily, and John had no doubt that despite anything he said in his letter, he would have done it. John knew exactly why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to know about Emily, hadn’t wanted to know anything but the fact of her existence, because had their roles been reversed, and John been denied any part of Emily except that she lived - not known her name, her sex, the color of her eyes and hair - he would have wanted to know all of her.
The idea of John pregnant - Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to resist. Better to pretend he didn’t know.
John understood that, as well as he understood why Emily loved her Granny Aurora, and the house where she was a princess. Sometimes it was easier to believe in a dream, when your surroundings gave you no reason to believe otherwise.
No. He couldn’t call Mycroft. Mycroft couldn’t be the intermediary. There couldn’t be any intermediary.
John didn’t have to read the letter to know exactly what it said.
Spain is nothing like Mexico but I imagine you are here anyway.
Spain then. John took a breath, and went to pack.
*
It was a simple thing to get on a plane and go. The real problem was leaving the estate. John knew that while he and Emily weren’t exactly prisoners, no one was very keen on them leaving. It had everything to do with one attempt being made on their lives already (well, two, in John’s case), and while John understood their concern, that didn’t mean he intended to follow their intentions blindly.
John supposed it was simply a matter of luck that Harry Watson happened to be visiting that afternoon.
“Christ, it’s strange visiting you here,” complained Harry. “I don’t know how you can stand being in that house - I feel like I’m going to knock over something priceless just by breathing.”
John chuckled. “Is that why you never want to stay inside?”
“Yes. No! It’s nice outside, and exercise is good for you.”
“Harry, the last time you came, it was snowing, and you demanded we walk around the pond for an hour.”
“It wasn’t even sticking,” insisted Harry, and she crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her hands under her armpits for warmth. “Anyway, Emily likes being outside, she can play with her kitten. And I’d have thought you’d be glad for a few minutes respite from Mummy Dearest.”
“Oi,” protested John. “Aurora is a lovely woman and she’s being endlessly kind.”
“She doesn’t watch me,” said Harry darkly. “She watches where I’ve been to see what I broke in my wake.”
John rolled his eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“Maybe,” said Harry. “Heard from Sherlock lately?”
“No,” said John shortly, and resisted the urge to ask about Clara. He folded his arms and stared intently at Emily, just on the edge of the pond with the kitten. “Em, kittens can’t swim!”
“I know, I’m ‘splaining that!” Emily called back.
“I think Gladstone knows that already, sweetie!” Harry called to her niece, and glanced over at John. “You’re not asking me about Clara.”
“That’s because I’m a kind-hearted soul who doesn’t want to intentionally injure anyone,” said John loftily, and Harry snorted, as he knew she would.
“Berk,” said Harry, and John wasn’t entirely sure that she meant him.
“Tell you what,” said John, “I’ll ring him now. Can I borrow your phone? Mine’s out of batteries.”
“Sure,” said Harry casually, and pulled it out of her pocket to hand to him. “I hear that happens when your phone is tapped.”
“Speak a little louder, and in the direction of the trees, why don’t you,” grumbled John, and squinted at Harry’s phone. “You don’t think….”
“Your brother-in-law gave me very explicit instructions,” said Harry cheerfully. “I’m not to visit outside certain hours, or tell anyone where I’m going when I do come by, or bring anyone to see you without prior authorization. Oh, and under no circumstances am I to attempt to take you or Emily off the estate for any reason whatsoever.”
John stared at the phone in his hand.
“This isn’t your mobile,” said John slowly.
“Of course not. It’s one of those pay-as-you-go phones. There’s twenty quid on it, and I’ve never used it, and a friend paid cash for it, so Big Brother will need an extra ten minutes to find you. Maybe fifteen if you’re lucky.”
John leaned over and kissed Harry’s forehead. “You….you did this?”
“Really, the only question I have for you is why it took you this long to ask. Don’t tell me you hadn’t figured out you were being kept here for your own good.”
John chuckled, and quickly typed a message into the phone, but before he finished, Harry covered the screen with her hand.
“Are you really texting him?” she asked quietly, so serious that John looked up to meet her eyes.
“Not exactly,” said John. “I don’t know how to get in touch with him. Not directly, and I don’t want Mycroft’s help.”
“Then…”
“A taxi, to get me to the airport.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “You…you’re going after him?”
John shrugged. “My turn, I suppose.”
Harry took the phone from John and with one swift move, deleted the text.
“Oi!”
“Hush,” Harry ordered him, and quickly placed a call. John struggled to get the phone back, and they wrestled while the call went out, but as soon as it was answered, the fight went out of John almost immediately.
“Hello,” said Lestrade’s voice on the other end. “Are we a go?”
“Yep,” said Harry, and disconnected the call. She handed the phone back to John with a smirk on her face. “You tosser. You really thought we wouldn’t want to help?”
John took the phone, unable to quite comprehend what had just happened. “Was that Greg Lestrade?”
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” said Harry, endearingly cheerful as she ignored the question. “We’re going to walk back up to the house in about ten minutes, Emily in tow, and I’m going to sit for an absolutely fantastic tea during which I’m going to fret about knocking over everything in the sitting room. You’re going to see me to my car, and wave me goodbye, and then you’re going to go for a walk in the woods while Em takes a nap.”
“Emily doesn’t take naps.”
“She will today,” said Harry confidently. “Don’t worry about it, she’ll be fine. You’re going to walk through the woods on the other side of the pond. There’s a little trail back there, follow the trail to the right, it’ll take you to a road, and that’s where you’ll find the car.”
John couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to laugh or cry. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Ages,” said Harry smugly. “Ever since Big Brother told me I couldn’t take my niece to McDonald’s for lunch. The tosser.”
John glanced over at Emily. “I won’t be able to say goodbye to her.”
Harry followed John’s gaze. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know.” He paused. “The only times I’ve ever slept away from her was when I was in hospital, you know.”
“I know,” said Harry gently. She reached and took John’s hand. “Look. If Big Brother lets me, I’ll come back tomorrow, and every day until you return.”
“He’ll think you had something to do with my disappearance,” John warned her.
“Well, that is the idea - we’re hoping he sends his goons to follow me, at least until tomorrow morning when you’re safely out of the country, and then I’ll let them catch me. I don’t much relish being on the run forever.”
“Em will be all right,” said John, looking at his daughter, in a way he hoped was convincing.
“Of course she will,” said Harry. “So will you.” She rested her head on John’s shoulder. “Something happened, didn’t it? Something’s making you go to him now.”
“Yeah.”
Harry was quiet. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me.”
John wanted to - he thought Harry might understand, actually. Or not, given her own history with Clara. And Aurora knew already, which meant that Mycroft would know soon enough.
But somehow, John didn’t quite want to say it. With a pang, he wondered if this was how Sherlock had felt, not wanting to recognize John’s pregnancy, because it would have meant acknowledging its existence. And sure enough, the baby propelled John to Sherlock now - but somehow, it wasn’t quite real, not until Sherlock knew.
“Not yet,” said John. “I’ll tell you first when we’re back. Is that all right?”
“I ought to extract some sort of payment for all the trouble you’re causing,” teased Harry.
“I’ll let you feed Emily full of ice creams and sweets, and then release her on Mycroft.”
“Oh, lovely, that’ll do nicely.” Harry looked at her watch. “We ought to go in for tea now.”
John nodded, and felt a curious flutter in his stomach. Not the baby, far too early - this was something else.
Excitement. Anticipation. Worry. The subterfuge was starting now, a slippery journey that would end with him and Sherlock in a room together, and a secret between them laid bare.
John suddenly couldn’t wait, and he called for Emily to head back to the house.
Chapter Two
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Sherlock/John, Mycroft Holmes, Mummy Holmes, Harry Watson, OFC
Warning: None
Rating: R
Summary: Six weeks ago, Sherlock went to finish off Mrs Moriarty - leaving John and their daughter behind. Again. This time, though, John's the one with the secret, and John's getting tired of waiting for Sherlock Holmes. Part Three of the Heart ‘Verse.
A/N: Thanks to Kizzia for the Brit-pick and to earlgreytea68 for the beta. And here it is, the much fabled and ballyhooed Heart3. I hope you find it worth the wait.
One More Miracle
Chapter One
There were times when Mycroft Holmes would have rather done anything but occupy his “minor” position within the British government. Up to and including actually occupying what would be in fact a minor position within the British government.
The truth of Mycroft’s position was that it could only be termed as “minor” in the strictest sense of the word, because Mycroft was, in fact, answerable to any number of ministries and offices throughout not only London, but embassies and international organizations of numerous nations besides. He often thought of himself as the linchpin, the binding force, the voice of reason in a world that tended toward anarchy. He read all, he saw all, and if he did not actually control all, he at least understood a great deal of what other men only saw in parts.
Mycroft Holmes was minor, yes, in that the power he was able to wield was quite limited. But he was also the complete picture, and that made him very powerful indeed. Many powerful men claim to see the entire picture. Few do. Mycroft let them think they understood their actions, and as long as those actions didn’t infringe too much on the overall warp and weave of the human tapestry, he allowed them to continue thinking so.
The problem with Mycroft’s position was that it meant that not knowing was a failure. For any other office within any other governmental structure, not knowing would have been something one blamed on others: for Mycroft, there was no one to blame, because it was his job to know. There was no piece of information he was not allowed to have.
It made him the obvious point of contact during Sherlock’s years away. If there was something Sherlock needed to know in order to complete his attempt to destroy Moriarty’s web, then it could be assumed that Mycroft knew it. And if there was something Sherlock needed to know about the health and welfare of John Watson during Sherlock’s time away - then Sherlock could be assured that Mycroft would know it as well.
“You knew,” said Sherlock calmly to Mycroft, the day he returned to London and found John in a coma, and a daughter he’d never known waiting for him at 221B.
Mycroft had known about Emily. Mycroft had chosen not to tell Sherlock. It had been a difficult decision on his part, to keep Emily’s existence a secret from her father, but one he based on his long history with his brother. And then there was John’s own belief and trust that Sherlock’s mission would be that much more difficult if he’d known she existed. Of course, John had thought Sherlock was dead, had been speaking metaphorically of the difficulty in Sherlock’s decision to jump from the top of St Bart’s if he’d known of the pregnancy…but Mycroft had long since learned to make logical leaps in such matters.
Besides, Mycroft agreed. For Sherlock to leave behind John was one thing. John was…well, John. He had suffered love and loss and would undoubtedly mourn and move on with his life. Mycroft knew that Sherlock hoped to return and find John waiting - but it was more important to Sherlock that he return and find John, no matter his circumstances.
But to leave behind Emily - Mycroft did not think his brother had the strength. If Sherlock knew about Emily, he would return to London and he would forget the men trying to kill him and his and they would all die for it. Mycroft, holding a newborn Emily in his arms for the first time, standing in the weathered little flat on Baker Street, had made the decision to simply never tell Sherlock a thing about her, and in doing so, save them all.
It was easier for Sherlock not to know what he missed. Easier for Mycroft, too, for a time, and he stayed away until that first Christmas, when John insisted he be part of her life. Pulled him into the role of the doting uncle, and the little girl had him wrapped around her finger before New Year’s Day.
Mycroft often envied Sherlock his ignorance.
Which was perhaps why he would have greatly rather not known that Sherlock had, in fact, known about her all along. Had played them all for fools. And Mycroft had never realized that when Sherlock asked about John, he had expected more than the answer “John is well”.
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, standing in his office. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, hair a bit longer than normal. Four weeks on from the fire in the cottage, the burned tinge to his skin had faded, and his breathing was easier - but he still held himself stiffly, as though he were pushing himself through the motions.
Mycroft walked past his brother. It was early morning and there was much to do; he didn’t have time for the games Sherlock played. Sherlock could just wait. Mycroft sat at his desk and opened the files and read them, frowning, scratched his name and initials by the tabbed marks, and then set them aside. He folded his hands and looked up at his brother, waiting impatiently, rocking from foot to foot.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft coldly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”
“I’m going off the grid.”
Mycroft didn’t blink. “I wasn’t aware that this required an announcement. You’ve gone off the grid before.”
“This is different,” said Sherlock. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, and gave it a long look before tossing it lightly in his hand. He set the mobile on Mycroft’s desk, nudging it until it was perfectly in line with the rest of the items. “When did you last see John and Emily?”
Mycroft stared at the mobile. “Four days ago. Mummy has decided that Emily would benefit from regular instruction in ballet.”
Sherlock said nothing.
“I understand she’s quite accomplished for only a few weeks along. The kitten follows her around everywhere.”
Sherlock nodded. “And…John?”
Mycroft shrugged, knowing perfectly well that the movement would annoy Sherlock. “He appeared to be in good spirits.”
“Did he ask after me?”
“I did not give him the chance. But he seemed as if he knew that I would bring you up.”
Sherlock waited, his shoulders back, his eyes anywhere but Mycroft’s face. Mycroft wondered how long it would take before Sherlock asked. Only a few moments, as it turned out.
“Did he take the letter?”
“No,” said Mycroft. “I left it for him. I cannot be sure he picked it up.”
“He wouldn’t have, not while you were in the room,” said Sherlock, and turned to reach for his scarf.
It was Sherlock’s indifference that seemed to trigger Mycroft’s sudden burst of anger. “You’ll be happy to know that John opens his laptop at least once a day and sits in front of it, and although he hasn’t actually typed anything, this shows marked improvement from when he simply stared out of the window all day. I believe he’s at last resigned to your inability to sustain a relationship when all the cards are on the table.”
“Sod off, Mycroft.”
Mycroft shrugged. “You asked.”
“It’s not-”
“If you say it’s not your fault, Sherlock Holmes, I will have armed guards escort you from the premises and never lift a single finger to help you ever again,” said Mycroft coldly. “You had ample opportunity to fix this mess you’ve created.”
“I didn’t know, Mycroft.”
“Oh, Sherlock.”
“Oh, fine, I knew about Emily, of course I knew about Emily. The moment I stepped off the roof at Bart’s, I knew about Emily. I didn’t know that John couldn’t feel the bond. If he had, he would have known it was all a trick, that I was still alive. He was supposed to know, Mycroft.”
“You were going to break the bond,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock said nothing. He leaned forward on Mycroft’s desk and waited, his eyes focused squarely on his brother, accusation pouring off of him.
You knew about Emily too, little brother. And you never said, and you still left.
Mycroft turned back to his paperwork. “I am very busy, Sherlock. And I believe you have a plane to catch.”
“There will be another flight,” said Sherlock indifferently.
“Will there?” asked Mycroft innocently, and Sherlock glared at him.
“I’m giving you one responsibility, Mycroft. One. Watch over them.”
“And that is exactly what I have done,” said Mycroft sharply. “Kept them safe from you in the same way I kept you safe from them. It is a sad fact of life that in order to keep all of you safe, you have decided that you must be kept apart. Fools, the lot of you. You should have taken John with you.”
“And leave Emily behind?”
“I meant four years ago. You should have trusted him, Sherlock. He would have gone to the ends of the earth with you, he would have kept your secret and helped you. You know what he is capable of doing - you’ve known it all along. I think you might even love him for it-”
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Mycroft. It only makes you look idiotic.”
“I will keep them safe, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “But don’t for one moment believe that I’m keeping them safe for you.”
Sherlock turned away, and Mycroft watched his younger brother’s shoulders shake as Sherlock struggled.
“I’m going to end this,” said Sherlock as he reached for his coat. “When you see John, tell him that I’m tired.”
“Tired,” echoed Mycroft.
“He read the letter; he’ll understand,” said Sherlock.
“And then what? Once it’s over. Back to the estate, to beg for John’s forgiveness?”
Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck. “No. He’s already told me that it’s not his forgiveness I need.”
*
John woke in the wide bed, eyes springing open in the sunlight. He breathed for a few moments, let himself settle and his body acclimate to the daylight, and quietly began to assess himself.
Respiration, a bit fast for having just woken without nightmares, but perhaps not so surprising given the circumstances of the previous few weeks. Circulation, a bit slow; his fingers were cold, despite being curled under the warm duvet.
Bond, strong, a settled knot just under his heart. John knew people liked to think of the bond as a tangible thing, a string connecting two people together, but John was a doctor and knew that bonds had no corporeal forms. And yet he could feel the quiet pull, the sense that Sherlock was out there, alive, moving and breathing and going about his day. When he thought of Sherlock, he felt the quiet warmth, a round, soft glow that made his limbs relax and his heart settle.
John pushed himself out of bed, feeling startlingly awake. A glance at the clock confirmed that he hadn’t overslept, and yet he felt better rested than he had in months. Perhaps it was that he felt the bond much more strongly that morning; perhaps it was the warmth in the day.
John showered and dressed. He shaved, carefully, and realized that he was humming, and with that realization, that he was…happy.
“Daddy!” called out Emily when he reached the dining room, where breakfast was laid out on the sideboard. John had resisted the rigors of a formal breakfast when they’d arrived, but Emily was captivated by the idea of something a little fancier than cold cereal or toast with jam, and Aurora was ready to indulge her granddaughter in anything the little girl desired. There were some battles that John didn’t particularly want to fight. Breakfast was one of them - and anyway, John had a weakness for poached eggs on toast.
“Good morning, Em,” said John as the little girl stood up on her chair to give him a hug and a wet kiss. “Fruit, please.”
“I ate a banana,” said Emily, and she pulled back and wrinkled her nose. “You smell funny.”
“I think your grandmother put mango shampoo in my shower,” said John, and Emily made a face.
“I heard that,” said Aurora Holmes, without looking up from her newspaper. “Emily, we do not stand on chairs.”
“Yuck,” said Emily, and sat back down with a bounce. “Mangos are horrible.”
“I agree,” John told her, and went to fetch his own plate. The poached eggs looked perfect, but he passed over them in favor of toast and an apple. Aurora eyed the plate as he sat down.
“The eggs not to your liking?”
“I feel like an apple,” said John. “Good morning, Aurora.”
“Good morning, John,” said Aurora, and she turned a page. “I rather thought Emily and I would have a walk in the woods this morning. Care to join us?”
“I have writing to do.”
“Hmm,” said Aurora, and John had the idea that Aurora knew exactly how much writing John had not done in previous mornings. She turned to look at John, and he thought he saw her nostrils flare, just barely. “Mango shampoo, was it?”
“Or something,” said John with a shrug. “I didn’t read the label, I just used it.”
“No matter,” said Aurora. “We’ll see you for lunch, if you don’t want to join our excursion. Emily, be a dear and ring for your father’s tea.”
Emily bounced up on her knees and reached across the table for the little bell, which she rang with great enthusiasm, almost knocking out one of the candlesticks. One of the maids appeared within moments, bearing a teapot and a little pitcher of milk. She poured the tea; John thought she spent a half minute too long lingering at his shoulder. It took a pointed glare from Aurora before the maid left the room.
John reached for the tea, but had barely taken a sip when he felt his stomach begin to roll. The room spun and his thoughts swirled in his head. For a horrible, terror-inducing moment, John thought he was going to be sick right then and there at the breakfast table.
Aurora’s voice cut through, the former morning haughtiness cut by the sudden concern. “John? Are you unwell?”
John blinked and set the cup back down on the table. He pressed his hands into the wood, felt the wood seem to press back up at him, and tried to breathe the nausea down. He didn’t dare answer Aurora - it would require opening his mouth, and he tried to remember the last time he’d felt this ill…
Oh.
Oh.
Without even thinking about it, John zeroed in on the bond. Please, God, no. Let him be alive.
And there it sat, comfortable, solid, strong and Sherlock, and John thought he felt the sweat actually materialize on his brow.
“Daddy?”
John looked up from the tea to his daughter, sitting across from him. She looked lost and ethereal, all in one go, and John was instantly reminded of the last time he’d been sick from his perfectly normal, non-sweetened tea, and how the first words out of his mouth were something he’d instantly felt the need to apologize for saying.
“Sorry, baby,” said John, and it was so close to that moment in the kitchen in 221B nearly four years before that the laughter rolled right out of him, and he laughed and laughed and laughed until tears were pouring out of his eyes as quickly as the giggles escaped from his throat.
“Oh, dear,” he heard Aurora say, and John tried to sit up, but couldn’t quite manage it with the laughter shaking him from head to toe. He heard Emily say something, and Aurora respond, and then the door closed, and Aurora pulled him to sitting up. He had one very quick glimpse of her concerned face before she slapped him, rather hard, on his cheek.
Had John not been hysterical with laughter, he might have hit her back. Instead, his mouth dropped open with shock, and he rubbed his cheek ruefully.
“Good Christ, Aurora!”
“Well,” said Aurora loftily. “I have no smelling salts handy, and you were clearly unable to control yourself, and so as needs must.”
“How badly have you been wanting to do that, anyway?” asked John. He could still feel the giggles bubbling, but it wasn’t quite as pressing now. He rubbed his cheek as he eyed his tea, and then scanned the rest of the table for sugar.
“It varies from day to day,” said Aurora. “Now. I don’t suppose you’re going to share your amusement, are you?”
John thought about it, and then shook his head. He spied the sugar near Aurora’s plate, and reached for it. “Where’s Emily?”
“Somewhere,” said Aurora impatiently, and she frowned as she watched John drop three sugars in his tea. “You don’t take sugar with your tea.”
“Perhaps I fancy a change.”
Aurora frowned, watching him, and then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. John!”
John sighed. Leave it to a Holmes to put things together quickly… “Please don’t.”
“Oh…I…” Aurora covered her mouth with her hands. “I won’t say a thing.”
“Good. Then let’s pretend there isn’t a thing to say.”
Aurora sat on her chair, quivering. John lifted the tea cautiously, and when his stomach didn’t appear to stage another rebellion, began to drink.
The sugared tea was better than he remembered, and John didn’t think he needed much more confirmation than that.
“It was here, wasn’t it?” asked Aurora, her voice equal measures of excitement and caution, and John shook his head.
“Aurora…”
“Yes, of course it was,” continued Aurora, growing in excitement. “You haven’t had a heat since, and that was six weeks ago - ah! Not mango shampoo at all, that’s just your scent beginning to shift a bit, isn’t it? Reacting with the shampoo, no doubt. I thought you looked different this morning, you came in and I said to myself, Aurora, there is a man who is at home in himself, I think today is going to be quite special.”
John groaned and put down his tea. “Aurora.”
Aurora lifted her hands. “I won’t say a word. I haven’t said a word! I’ll pop off right now and Emily and I will go walking in the woods and perhaps we’ll have a little discussion about the birds and bees and butterflies.”
“Fine,” said John, giving up. “Just…fine.”
Aurora leaned over and squeezed John’s shoulder, and let her hand rest there a moment. “Do…do you want me to ring Mycroft?”
John tensed. “Why?”
“He does know where Sherlock is,” said Aurora. “He could pass along a message.”
John shook his head. “No.”
Aurora faltered. “No?”
“Not yet,” amended John. He paused. “Aurora, I appreciate it, but…”
“Of course,” said Aurora, and she pulled her hand back from John’s shoulder. “We’ll see you for lunch then, won’t we?”
John nodded, and waited until Aurora had left the room before burying his head in his hands.
Pregnant. Again.
John felt the giggles try to escape, but this time the hysterics didn’t return. Just as well - he didn’t relish the idea of anyone returning and giving him another slap to snap him out of it. Ridiculous enough to be forty years old and pregnant for the second time.
And it was ridiculous. John had never really believed the superstition that alphas and omegas were the most fertile of combinations, with every heat resulting in pregnancy - because there were always exceptions, particularly in more recent years with the creation of birth controls and suppressants. And it didn’t matter if you were an alpha and omega, sometimes people just weren’t genetically compatible with each other.
But John and Sherlock together were two for three now - three heats, two pregnancies, and John wondered how the hell they’d managed to dodge the proverbial bullet on their first heat together.
Maybe because one of them hadn’t left immediately afterwards. That was a rather grim thought.
John rested his hand on his stomach, just below the knot of his bond. Not corporeal, no. But…no less present. He’d felt it with Emily, and wanted desperately to believe that it was Sherlock, that Sherlock was alive and well and that everything he’d seen that day at St Bart’s was a magic trick. That his one miracle was Sherlock coming home.
He was wrong, and then he was right, and here he was again, feeling the bond, and wondering.
Except…Sherlock was alive. He had no doubt of that now. Mycroft would have told them otherwise. The bond he felt - that was Sherlock, and not the new baby. John felt that as strongly as he did anything else.
John breathed, felt his hand rise and fall above his stomach, and stood up carefully, waiting for the nausea to return. It didn’t.
Mycroft would know where Sherlock was - Aurora was correct about that. One call to Mycroft, and just a few words, and within a day or two, Sherlock would know, and come racing back, and…
Then what? Reconciliation, recrimination, arguments and tears and maybe a punch or two. And then they’d fall into bed together and they would ignore the larger issues (“Why did you lie to me?” “Why did you run from me?”) and the baby would be born and they’d go on ignoring the issues and maybe live the rest of their lives that way.
That wasn’t what John wanted. Not really. He wasn’t going to call for Sherlock with a cry for help, pull him away from the last task he’d ignored for so long. Sorry, Mrs Moriarty, can’t play your game, my John needs me by his side, helpless omega, you understand.
Helpless omega, John’s arse.
John left the dining room and went upstairs. Emily was playing on the stairs, jumping from one to the other, cheerfully dismantling her braids with one hand while she held onto the railing with the other.
“Gran said it’s a secret,” she told her father accusatorily.
“What’s a secret?” asked John.
“Why you were laughing. I wanted to know the joke,” explained Emily, and John knelt in front of her.
“I wish I knew,” said John, and kissed Emily’s forehead while she frowned and made a face.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she complained. “Why were you laughing if you didn’t know the joke?”
“Because,” John told her. “I didn’t know the joke.”
Emily frowned at him. “You’re weird.”
“Thank God for that,” said John, and tousled his daughter’s hair. “I’ll see you at lunch, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Emily, and continued hopping down the stairs.
The maids had been through the room while John had been down for breakfast. His bed was neatly made, the towels hung in the lavatory to dry. His pajamas were folded and slipped under his pillow, exactly as he preferred, and John thought he could smell lavender and thyme in the air. It was meant to be pleasant, but John wondered how he’d ever found it anything but cloying, and thought he ought to mention it to Aurora, so that she could instruct the maids not to use it in his rooms again.
For the next few months, anyway.
The letter was on the top shelf in the wardrobe; John pulled the envelope down and sat on the bed to open it. A single sheet of paper, covered in Sherlock’s handwriting; John held it in his hands, unfolded, and thought about reading it. He’d only read it once, and then he’d folded it and put it on the top shelf under the jumpers and tried to forget all about it. It wasn’t as though he’d memorized it, not on a single reading, but small phrases remained in his mind, curling around each other and twisting slightly, and John was sure he didn’t remember them in quite the same way that they were actually written.
Of course Sherlock was in contact with Mycroft; of course Mycroft was in contact with him. John should never have doubted that the two brothers who professed such animosity toward each other would cling to the other in adversity. John supposed he’d never stood a chance to come between them - not that he wanted to, at any time.
And now…a letter. It was more than he’d had before, John supposed. He could have picked up his mobile and rung Mycroft, told him he had a message for Sherlock, and trusted that Sherlock would receive it. “I’m pregnant.” “The suppressants weren’t the only thing to fail.” “Come home.”
And Sherlock would. John had no doubt about that - he’d have come home without fail, without finishing his job, because he hadn’t with Emily, and John had no doubt that despite anything he said in his letter, he would have done it. John knew exactly why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to know about Emily, hadn’t wanted to know anything but the fact of her existence, because had their roles been reversed, and John been denied any part of Emily except that she lived - not known her name, her sex, the color of her eyes and hair - he would have wanted to know all of her.
The idea of John pregnant - Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to resist. Better to pretend he didn’t know.
John understood that, as well as he understood why Emily loved her Granny Aurora, and the house where she was a princess. Sometimes it was easier to believe in a dream, when your surroundings gave you no reason to believe otherwise.
No. He couldn’t call Mycroft. Mycroft couldn’t be the intermediary. There couldn’t be any intermediary.
John didn’t have to read the letter to know exactly what it said.
Spain is nothing like Mexico but I imagine you are here anyway.
Spain then. John took a breath, and went to pack.
*
It was a simple thing to get on a plane and go. The real problem was leaving the estate. John knew that while he and Emily weren’t exactly prisoners, no one was very keen on them leaving. It had everything to do with one attempt being made on their lives already (well, two, in John’s case), and while John understood their concern, that didn’t mean he intended to follow their intentions blindly.
John supposed it was simply a matter of luck that Harry Watson happened to be visiting that afternoon.
“Christ, it’s strange visiting you here,” complained Harry. “I don’t know how you can stand being in that house - I feel like I’m going to knock over something priceless just by breathing.”
John chuckled. “Is that why you never want to stay inside?”
“Yes. No! It’s nice outside, and exercise is good for you.”
“Harry, the last time you came, it was snowing, and you demanded we walk around the pond for an hour.”
“It wasn’t even sticking,” insisted Harry, and she crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her hands under her armpits for warmth. “Anyway, Emily likes being outside, she can play with her kitten. And I’d have thought you’d be glad for a few minutes respite from Mummy Dearest.”
“Oi,” protested John. “Aurora is a lovely woman and she’s being endlessly kind.”
“She doesn’t watch me,” said Harry darkly. “She watches where I’ve been to see what I broke in my wake.”
John rolled his eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“Maybe,” said Harry. “Heard from Sherlock lately?”
“No,” said John shortly, and resisted the urge to ask about Clara. He folded his arms and stared intently at Emily, just on the edge of the pond with the kitten. “Em, kittens can’t swim!”
“I know, I’m ‘splaining that!” Emily called back.
“I think Gladstone knows that already, sweetie!” Harry called to her niece, and glanced over at John. “You’re not asking me about Clara.”
“That’s because I’m a kind-hearted soul who doesn’t want to intentionally injure anyone,” said John loftily, and Harry snorted, as he knew she would.
“Berk,” said Harry, and John wasn’t entirely sure that she meant him.
“Tell you what,” said John, “I’ll ring him now. Can I borrow your phone? Mine’s out of batteries.”
“Sure,” said Harry casually, and pulled it out of her pocket to hand to him. “I hear that happens when your phone is tapped.”
“Speak a little louder, and in the direction of the trees, why don’t you,” grumbled John, and squinted at Harry’s phone. “You don’t think….”
“Your brother-in-law gave me very explicit instructions,” said Harry cheerfully. “I’m not to visit outside certain hours, or tell anyone where I’m going when I do come by, or bring anyone to see you without prior authorization. Oh, and under no circumstances am I to attempt to take you or Emily off the estate for any reason whatsoever.”
John stared at the phone in his hand.
“This isn’t your mobile,” said John slowly.
“Of course not. It’s one of those pay-as-you-go phones. There’s twenty quid on it, and I’ve never used it, and a friend paid cash for it, so Big Brother will need an extra ten minutes to find you. Maybe fifteen if you’re lucky.”
John leaned over and kissed Harry’s forehead. “You….you did this?”
“Really, the only question I have for you is why it took you this long to ask. Don’t tell me you hadn’t figured out you were being kept here for your own good.”
John chuckled, and quickly typed a message into the phone, but before he finished, Harry covered the screen with her hand.
“Are you really texting him?” she asked quietly, so serious that John looked up to meet her eyes.
“Not exactly,” said John. “I don’t know how to get in touch with him. Not directly, and I don’t want Mycroft’s help.”
“Then…”
“A taxi, to get me to the airport.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “You…you’re going after him?”
John shrugged. “My turn, I suppose.”
Harry took the phone from John and with one swift move, deleted the text.
“Oi!”
“Hush,” Harry ordered him, and quickly placed a call. John struggled to get the phone back, and they wrestled while the call went out, but as soon as it was answered, the fight went out of John almost immediately.
“Hello,” said Lestrade’s voice on the other end. “Are we a go?”
“Yep,” said Harry, and disconnected the call. She handed the phone back to John with a smirk on her face. “You tosser. You really thought we wouldn’t want to help?”
John took the phone, unable to quite comprehend what had just happened. “Was that Greg Lestrade?”
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” said Harry, endearingly cheerful as she ignored the question. “We’re going to walk back up to the house in about ten minutes, Emily in tow, and I’m going to sit for an absolutely fantastic tea during which I’m going to fret about knocking over everything in the sitting room. You’re going to see me to my car, and wave me goodbye, and then you’re going to go for a walk in the woods while Em takes a nap.”
“Emily doesn’t take naps.”
“She will today,” said Harry confidently. “Don’t worry about it, she’ll be fine. You’re going to walk through the woods on the other side of the pond. There’s a little trail back there, follow the trail to the right, it’ll take you to a road, and that’s where you’ll find the car.”
John couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to laugh or cry. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Ages,” said Harry smugly. “Ever since Big Brother told me I couldn’t take my niece to McDonald’s for lunch. The tosser.”
John glanced over at Emily. “I won’t be able to say goodbye to her.”
Harry followed John’s gaze. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know.” He paused. “The only times I’ve ever slept away from her was when I was in hospital, you know.”
“I know,” said Harry gently. She reached and took John’s hand. “Look. If Big Brother lets me, I’ll come back tomorrow, and every day until you return.”
“He’ll think you had something to do with my disappearance,” John warned her.
“Well, that is the idea - we’re hoping he sends his goons to follow me, at least until tomorrow morning when you’re safely out of the country, and then I’ll let them catch me. I don’t much relish being on the run forever.”
“Em will be all right,” said John, looking at his daughter, in a way he hoped was convincing.
“Of course she will,” said Harry. “So will you.” She rested her head on John’s shoulder. “Something happened, didn’t it? Something’s making you go to him now.”
“Yeah.”
Harry was quiet. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me.”
John wanted to - he thought Harry might understand, actually. Or not, given her own history with Clara. And Aurora knew already, which meant that Mycroft would know soon enough.
But somehow, John didn’t quite want to say it. With a pang, he wondered if this was how Sherlock had felt, not wanting to recognize John’s pregnancy, because it would have meant acknowledging its existence. And sure enough, the baby propelled John to Sherlock now - but somehow, it wasn’t quite real, not until Sherlock knew.
“Not yet,” said John. “I’ll tell you first when we’re back. Is that all right?”
“I ought to extract some sort of payment for all the trouble you’re causing,” teased Harry.
“I’ll let you feed Emily full of ice creams and sweets, and then release her on Mycroft.”
“Oh, lovely, that’ll do nicely.” Harry looked at her watch. “We ought to go in for tea now.”
John nodded, and felt a curious flutter in his stomach. Not the baby, far too early - this was something else.
Excitement. Anticipation. Worry. The subterfuge was starting now, a slippery journey that would end with him and Sherlock in a room together, and a secret between them laid bare.
John suddenly couldn’t wait, and he called for Emily to head back to the house.
Chapter Two