The Scions of Deduction
Title: The Scions of Deduction
Author:
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: John/Sarah, canon characters, original characters
Summary: Set a year and a half after a deadly incident, expectant parents John and Sarah are in for a surprise.
Warnings: Mention of major character death
Word Count: 1960
Author's Notes: Alternate Universe and kid!fic
.oOOo.
Dr John Watson stepped out of the tiny bookshop into a fine bright November morning. London would have few such glorious days before winter answered its annual obligation and turned the city to a landscape of rain and cold. Better enjoy the sun's warmth while it lasted, he thought.
Perhaps it was old-fashioned to shop in person when more convenient internet options were available, but errands such as this were gifts to a man who had been given up for dead not so long ago. As an officer in the Royal Army Medical Corps, he had been gravely injured in the service of his country, but it was a madman and a load of plastic explosives that all but claimed his life. Modern medicine managed to keep him alive, but nothing could be done to restore his health and vigour.
John was learning not to dwell on such things, besides, for the first time in a long time, he had much to look forward to. He tucked the little book of baby names into his pocket, and with the aid of his cane, began the slow walk home.
‘Hullo, Dr Watson.’ A flash of anger crossed his face. This was not his usual reaction to the sight of a pretty young woman, but in his mind, it was well justified because he had met this one before.
‘Blackberry, what are you...?’
‘My name’s not ‘Blackberry’, John,’ she smiled.
‘It’s not ‘Anthea’, either. What do you want?’ The bitterness in his voice helped steady his nerves as a wave of awareness and calm washed over him. Just like old times.
‘I’m here to offer you a ride home.’ Things were seldom as they seemed. A ride home, in reality, meant a well-upholstered abduction and a meeting with her boss because Anthea (or Blackberry) was the personal assistant, and loyal right hand of the most dangerous man John knew.
‘I thought I made myself very clear. I want nothing to do with Mycroft Holmes and his machinations.’
‘Please, get in the car,’ she smiled, more sweetly than before. For a brief moment, John considered fleeing. It was absurd; he wouldn’t make it to the end of the block before someone would muscle him into the awaiting car. Refusing would have the same effect. He scanned the few pedestrians but none looked like they would aid him if he called for help.
‘I have no choice, do I?’
‘None at all,’ she said as she signalled the waiting car to approach.
A dark grey, richly-appointed sedan pulled up to the kerb. Anthea opened the rear door and gestured for John to give her his cane. It made for an inelegant entry, but John was too angry to worry about his pride. Any other time he might have been pleased to think that they still considered him a threat. Inside sat a neatly-dressed gentleman in an impeccable tailored suit: Mycroft Holmes. It had been a year since their last meeting and he had been sticking to his diet. Sherlock, were he here, would have had some flippant, stinging insult for his insufferable older brother...
‘I hear congratulations are in order, and how is Dr Sawyer doing?’ Mycroft asked with his patented canary-eating smile.
John said nothing as the car pulled out into the busy thoroughfare.
‘Exciting isn’t it, expecting your first child? Nerve-wracking too, I suppose.’
John looked Mycroft directly in the eyes. ‘Why am I here?’
‘Not for existential philosophical answers, I assure you.’
‘Then either get to the point, or let me out.’
‘Very well. But please remember, I did try to be polite. Something concerning my late brother has recently come to my attention. Ah. I see I now have your attention too. Eleanor Earncliffe is dying. This means nothing to you. Yet.
‘Her husband, the late Professor Patrick Earncliffe was afflicted with Huntington’s Disease. Even knowing that his time was short, the couple still wished to raise a family. Six years ago, they received fertility treatments at a reputable clinic. Due to his genetic risk, Eleanor’s ova were fertilised by donated spermatozoa. Nine months later, she gave birth to twins: a boy and a girl. Last year, Patrick passed away due to complications of his illness. They had hoped to have more time, but the disease progressed more quickly than anticipated.’
Mycroft gave his iPad a few taps before handing it to John. The screen showed a few pictures, accompanied by even more text. John rummaged for his reading glasses: another souvenir of surviving the explosion and building collapse. The file contained what could only be described as Eleanor Earncliffe’s information profile. A portrait revealed a woman in her late thirties, or early forties, her expression conveying an air of intelligence and humour. A former lecturer in astronomy at the University of Birmingham, she had given up her career in order to raise her children and to care for her ailing husband. Even so, she was still listed as authoring and co-authoring several works since taking leave on compassionate grounds.
‘She’s been keeping busy. But I still don’t see...’
‘Two months ago, Eleanor’s doctors diagnosed a brain tumour. Inoperable, I’m afraid.’
‘Poor woman... but what has this to do with Sherlock, and why come to me with it. I am not an oncologist.’
‘You do not need to be one to recognise her prognosis as grim. She will be lucky to survive the month. Since neither she nor her late husband has any close relatives, Eleanor has been making desperate inquiries about her children’s biological father.’
‘The sperm donor? I still don’t follow...’
Mycroft nodded with a sigh. ‘Both Patrick and Eleanor were respected academics, highly intelligent, with a wide variety of talents and interests. They wanted to raise children who would excel as well. They were very selective when they screened their donors’ information. Very selective.’
‘Yeah, I get that parents want the best for their kids. All parents do, or at least they should. What am I missing? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Prior to the Earncliffe’s procedure, my dear brother was investigating one of the doctors at that clinic.’
‘Investigating, how?’
‘One of the doctors was of interest; malpractice, or fraud, or something equally trivial. Sherlock needed to get inside information to determine the extent of the crime. This clinic screens their donors quite vigorously. No physical or psychological abnormalities allowed. Intense genetic testing for recessive diseases. Certain thresholds of health, beauty, and intelligence were established and are adhered to. Sherlock posed as a donor.’
‘Posed?’
‘More than posed’, Mycroft conceded. ‘He made multiple donations.’
‘...and the Earncliffe children... they’re his.’
‘Yes. Eleanor’s inquiries brought them to my attention. I ran a few tests...’
‘Did Sherlock know, about the children, I mean?’
‘I don’t think he did, and I truly don’t think he would have cared.’
John paused to consider. Mycroft was likely right. Sherlock had always been very cavalier regarding anything outside of whatever immediate problem currently consumed him.
‘As his friend, even you have to admit that my dear brother was never very good at thinking about the long-term ramifications of his actions... and he was much worse back then.’
‘What do you plan to do?’
‘Oh, I’ve already been through the clinic’s database. The Earncliffes were the only ones who selected my brother’s seed. I have had all the remaining frozen embryos and spermatozoa seized and destroyed.’
‘Erm... yeah. Very thorough, no doubt. I meant about the kids. You’re going to adopt them, right? You’re their closest family, aside from your mother.’
Mycroft leaned over and tapped the iPad again. A picture of two children appeared. John’s heart stopped. He was speechless. Even at such a young age, there was no mistaking it: the twins were unquestioningly Sherlock’s. Mycroft scowled.
‘I cannot adopt them. My job... I have other priorities.’
‘Your mother, then?’
‘Heavens, no! You’ve seen how we turned out! My brother’s children deserve to grow up in a normal family. They deserve to be happy.’
This was not the first time John speculated on how much happiness Mycroft and Sherlock were allotted in their formative years. Two boys with extraordinary intelligence quotients, compelled to excel to unbearably high standards; one conforming, the other rebelling... Much was unknown about Mycroft’s private life, but as far as he could tell, Sherlock never experienced joy in any way that John could understand.
‘There are plenty of good families waiting to adopt...’
‘Indeed. I already have one in mind. They are about the same ages as the Earncliffes. Financially stable, but by no means rich. No children of their own... yet. Professionals... both are doctors...’
John’s ears reddened. ‘You’re not suggesting--’
‘Oh, but I am. Who would be better suited?’
‘But Sarah and I don’t know anything about kids--’
‘You knew enough to make one.’
‘Ha ha. I mean it. We’re not due for another three months and we’re already terrified--’
‘You and Sarah are perfectly suitable--’
‘--and you want to throw into the mix, two little children who, in the span of a year, will have lost both their father and their mother? How can this not be a disaster?!?’
‘I have great faith in you.’
‘Faith? Have you considered my health? Do you know how much medication I need to take to make it through a normal day? The thought of widowing Sarah with one child is bad enough, but you propose we...’
‘Wouldn’t be nice for your son to have an older brother and sister?’
‘My son? Wait, how do you...? Arghh, Mycroft! We didn’t want to know ahead--’
‘Really? Isn’t it nicer to know? My, how quaint! Although, as a medical professional in this day and age, I find your attitude positively mediaeval!’
[Author’s Note: At this time, it must remembered that John Watson had served many years with the Army and his vocabulary of profanity remains both intensive and extensive. His next words were not suitable for most audiences.]
‘Come now, John, we were having such a pleasant chat, and I’m not sure how the tranquiliser dart will react with your medications. Best if we don’t have to use it, don't you agree?’
It was with great effort that John calmed himself. His steady nerve which served him so well in dangerous situations prevailed once again. Perhaps he could reason with Mycroft. There were so many arguments against what he proposed.
‘Sherlock was my friend. He was a great man and a good friend, but we’re not family.’
‘You were more of a brother to him in your brief acquaintance, than I have been, all these years.’
‘This is emotional blackmail--’
‘Is it? Well then, let’s up the ante, as they say. Consider this: If Sherlock had not been so intent on saving your life, he might have given some thought to the sniper.’
That hurt. John took a deep breath. He hadn’t asked to survive. In fact he never expected to. His last desperate act had been to shield Sherlock from the explosion. The blast threw Sherlock into the relative safety where he was partially sheltered from the building's collapse. John was not as lucky. Only months later, when he emerged from his induced coma, did John learn how Sherlock had saved him. How he had dragged him from the rubble. How he had desperately fought to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. How the sniper’s bullet splattered his brain across the pavement...
John owed Sherlock his life. Perhaps this was they only way he could ever repay that debt.
‘This is not a request, is it?’
‘You know better than to ask.’
‘Then you should turn this car around and take me to the surgery,’ John spoke with resignation. ‘We had better go kidnap Dr Sawyer and tell her the happy news.’
.oOOo.
Next time: Sarah gets her say...
Author:
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: John/Sarah, canon characters, original characters
Summary: Set a year and a half after a deadly incident, expectant parents John and Sarah are in for a surprise.
Warnings: Mention of major character death
Word Count: 1960
Author's Notes: Alternate Universe and kid!fic
.oOOo.
Dr John Watson stepped out of the tiny bookshop into a fine bright November morning. London would have few such glorious days before winter answered its annual obligation and turned the city to a landscape of rain and cold. Better enjoy the sun's warmth while it lasted, he thought.
Perhaps it was old-fashioned to shop in person when more convenient internet options were available, but errands such as this were gifts to a man who had been given up for dead not so long ago. As an officer in the Royal Army Medical Corps, he had been gravely injured in the service of his country, but it was a madman and a load of plastic explosives that all but claimed his life. Modern medicine managed to keep him alive, but nothing could be done to restore his health and vigour.
John was learning not to dwell on such things, besides, for the first time in a long time, he had much to look forward to. He tucked the little book of baby names into his pocket, and with the aid of his cane, began the slow walk home.
‘Hullo, Dr Watson.’ A flash of anger crossed his face. This was not his usual reaction to the sight of a pretty young woman, but in his mind, it was well justified because he had met this one before.
‘Blackberry, what are you...?’
‘My name’s not ‘Blackberry’, John,’ she smiled.
‘It’s not ‘Anthea’, either. What do you want?’ The bitterness in his voice helped steady his nerves as a wave of awareness and calm washed over him. Just like old times.
‘I’m here to offer you a ride home.’ Things were seldom as they seemed. A ride home, in reality, meant a well-upholstered abduction and a meeting with her boss because Anthea (or Blackberry) was the personal assistant, and loyal right hand of the most dangerous man John knew.
‘I thought I made myself very clear. I want nothing to do with Mycroft Holmes and his machinations.’
‘Please, get in the car,’ she smiled, more sweetly than before. For a brief moment, John considered fleeing. It was absurd; he wouldn’t make it to the end of the block before someone would muscle him into the awaiting car. Refusing would have the same effect. He scanned the few pedestrians but none looked like they would aid him if he called for help.
‘I have no choice, do I?’
‘None at all,’ she said as she signalled the waiting car to approach.
A dark grey, richly-appointed sedan pulled up to the kerb. Anthea opened the rear door and gestured for John to give her his cane. It made for an inelegant entry, but John was too angry to worry about his pride. Any other time he might have been pleased to think that they still considered him a threat. Inside sat a neatly-dressed gentleman in an impeccable tailored suit: Mycroft Holmes. It had been a year since their last meeting and he had been sticking to his diet. Sherlock, were he here, would have had some flippant, stinging insult for his insufferable older brother...
‘I hear congratulations are in order, and how is Dr Sawyer doing?’ Mycroft asked with his patented canary-eating smile.
John said nothing as the car pulled out into the busy thoroughfare.
‘Exciting isn’t it, expecting your first child? Nerve-wracking too, I suppose.’
John looked Mycroft directly in the eyes. ‘Why am I here?’
‘Not for existential philosophical answers, I assure you.’
‘Then either get to the point, or let me out.’
‘Very well. But please remember, I did try to be polite. Something concerning my late brother has recently come to my attention. Ah. I see I now have your attention too. Eleanor Earncliffe is dying. This means nothing to you. Yet.
‘Her husband, the late Professor Patrick Earncliffe was afflicted with Huntington’s Disease. Even knowing that his time was short, the couple still wished to raise a family. Six years ago, they received fertility treatments at a reputable clinic. Due to his genetic risk, Eleanor’s ova were fertilised by donated spermatozoa. Nine months later, she gave birth to twins: a boy and a girl. Last year, Patrick passed away due to complications of his illness. They had hoped to have more time, but the disease progressed more quickly than anticipated.’
Mycroft gave his iPad a few taps before handing it to John. The screen showed a few pictures, accompanied by even more text. John rummaged for his reading glasses: another souvenir of surviving the explosion and building collapse. The file contained what could only be described as Eleanor Earncliffe’s information profile. A portrait revealed a woman in her late thirties, or early forties, her expression conveying an air of intelligence and humour. A former lecturer in astronomy at the University of Birmingham, she had given up her career in order to raise her children and to care for her ailing husband. Even so, she was still listed as authoring and co-authoring several works since taking leave on compassionate grounds.
‘She’s been keeping busy. But I still don’t see...’
‘Two months ago, Eleanor’s doctors diagnosed a brain tumour. Inoperable, I’m afraid.’
‘Poor woman... but what has this to do with Sherlock, and why come to me with it. I am not an oncologist.’
‘You do not need to be one to recognise her prognosis as grim. She will be lucky to survive the month. Since neither she nor her late husband has any close relatives, Eleanor has been making desperate inquiries about her children’s biological father.’
‘The sperm donor? I still don’t follow...’
Mycroft nodded with a sigh. ‘Both Patrick and Eleanor were respected academics, highly intelligent, with a wide variety of talents and interests. They wanted to raise children who would excel as well. They were very selective when they screened their donors’ information. Very selective.’
‘Yeah, I get that parents want the best for their kids. All parents do, or at least they should. What am I missing? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Prior to the Earncliffe’s procedure, my dear brother was investigating one of the doctors at that clinic.’
‘Investigating, how?’
‘One of the doctors was of interest; malpractice, or fraud, or something equally trivial. Sherlock needed to get inside information to determine the extent of the crime. This clinic screens their donors quite vigorously. No physical or psychological abnormalities allowed. Intense genetic testing for recessive diseases. Certain thresholds of health, beauty, and intelligence were established and are adhered to. Sherlock posed as a donor.’
‘Posed?’
‘More than posed’, Mycroft conceded. ‘He made multiple donations.’
‘...and the Earncliffe children... they’re his.’
‘Yes. Eleanor’s inquiries brought them to my attention. I ran a few tests...’
‘Did Sherlock know, about the children, I mean?’
‘I don’t think he did, and I truly don’t think he would have cared.’
John paused to consider. Mycroft was likely right. Sherlock had always been very cavalier regarding anything outside of whatever immediate problem currently consumed him.
‘As his friend, even you have to admit that my dear brother was never very good at thinking about the long-term ramifications of his actions... and he was much worse back then.’
‘What do you plan to do?’
‘Oh, I’ve already been through the clinic’s database. The Earncliffes were the only ones who selected my brother’s seed. I have had all the remaining frozen embryos and spermatozoa seized and destroyed.’
‘Erm... yeah. Very thorough, no doubt. I meant about the kids. You’re going to adopt them, right? You’re their closest family, aside from your mother.’
Mycroft leaned over and tapped the iPad again. A picture of two children appeared. John’s heart stopped. He was speechless. Even at such a young age, there was no mistaking it: the twins were unquestioningly Sherlock’s. Mycroft scowled.
‘I cannot adopt them. My job... I have other priorities.’
‘Your mother, then?’
‘Heavens, no! You’ve seen how we turned out! My brother’s children deserve to grow up in a normal family. They deserve to be happy.’
This was not the first time John speculated on how much happiness Mycroft and Sherlock were allotted in their formative years. Two boys with extraordinary intelligence quotients, compelled to excel to unbearably high standards; one conforming, the other rebelling... Much was unknown about Mycroft’s private life, but as far as he could tell, Sherlock never experienced joy in any way that John could understand.
‘There are plenty of good families waiting to adopt...’
‘Indeed. I already have one in mind. They are about the same ages as the Earncliffes. Financially stable, but by no means rich. No children of their own... yet. Professionals... both are doctors...’
John’s ears reddened. ‘You’re not suggesting--’
‘Oh, but I am. Who would be better suited?’
‘But Sarah and I don’t know anything about kids--’
‘You knew enough to make one.’
‘Ha ha. I mean it. We’re not due for another three months and we’re already terrified--’
‘You and Sarah are perfectly suitable--’
‘--and you want to throw into the mix, two little children who, in the span of a year, will have lost both their father and their mother? How can this not be a disaster?!?’
‘I have great faith in you.’
‘Faith? Have you considered my health? Do you know how much medication I need to take to make it through a normal day? The thought of widowing Sarah with one child is bad enough, but you propose we...’
‘Wouldn’t be nice for your son to have an older brother and sister?’
‘My son? Wait, how do you...? Arghh, Mycroft! We didn’t want to know ahead--’
‘Really? Isn’t it nicer to know? My, how quaint! Although, as a medical professional in this day and age, I find your attitude positively mediaeval!’
[Author’s Note: At this time, it must remembered that John Watson had served many years with the Army and his vocabulary of profanity remains both intensive and extensive. His next words were not suitable for most audiences.]
‘Come now, John, we were having such a pleasant chat, and I’m not sure how the tranquiliser dart will react with your medications. Best if we don’t have to use it, don't you agree?’
It was with great effort that John calmed himself. His steady nerve which served him so well in dangerous situations prevailed once again. Perhaps he could reason with Mycroft. There were so many arguments against what he proposed.
‘Sherlock was my friend. He was a great man and a good friend, but we’re not family.’
‘You were more of a brother to him in your brief acquaintance, than I have been, all these years.’
‘This is emotional blackmail--’
‘Is it? Well then, let’s up the ante, as they say. Consider this: If Sherlock had not been so intent on saving your life, he might have given some thought to the sniper.’
That hurt. John took a deep breath. He hadn’t asked to survive. In fact he never expected to. His last desperate act had been to shield Sherlock from the explosion. The blast threw Sherlock into the relative safety where he was partially sheltered from the building's collapse. John was not as lucky. Only months later, when he emerged from his induced coma, did John learn how Sherlock had saved him. How he had dragged him from the rubble. How he had desperately fought to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. How the sniper’s bullet splattered his brain across the pavement...
John owed Sherlock his life. Perhaps this was they only way he could ever repay that debt.
‘This is not a request, is it?’
‘You know better than to ask.’
‘Then you should turn this car around and take me to the surgery,’ John spoke with resignation. ‘We had better go kidnap Dr Sawyer and tell her the happy news.’
.oOOo.
Next time: Sarah gets her say...