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: 1820
Author's Notes: Alternate Universe and kid!fic
Previously on The Scions of Deduction...
Scions 101
Scions 102
and now
Scions 103
All of Eleanor Earncliffe’s best laid plans for a life with her family had gone very badly awry in the last year. It started when her husband, Patrick, had passed away prematurely from heart failure and other complications of Huntington’s disease. Then, two months ago, she had suddenly collapsed while shopping for groceries with her children. Emergency MRI revealed a tumour the size of an orange in her brain. She had experienced no symptoms other than fatigue, which she chalked up as inevitable since she was raising two very active five-year olds.
With no immediate family able to take in her twins, this brave woman was spending her last days trying to keep her children out of foster care. She and her late husband had worked so hard to build the perfect foundation for raising their extraordinary children. Right down to their genetics, the twins had been destined, some might even say programmed, for a life of success. They had been given sensible, if not old-fashioned names, suitable for life in public school, university, and success in the world. Secretly, Eleanor hoped that they would become leading academics, such as Patrick and she had been. Their children were to be their legacy: shining examples of the realisation of human potential in an increasingly mundane world
Now, cruel fate intervened. The pain associated with her cancer was nothing compared to knowing that she would not live to see their sixth birthday, never mind the rest of their lives. Still, there was no time for self-pity; she still had so much to do. The enigmatic Mr Holmes had just requested another meeting. One glance at the mirror made her wonder whether the pretty bandanna the nurse wrapped around her head to hide the scars of the exploratory surgery was for her sake, or for the sake of everyone else who had to come in contact with her.
Dr Maya Ladner had been in to prepare her to receive guests. All Eleanor knew was that Mr Holmes was biologically related to the twins and although he could not adopt the children himself, he would be bringing with him the couple he selected for that responsibility.
‘They’re both doctors. That should please you,’ Maya said.
‘Hmmph. Why should that please me?’ Doctors always seemed to have a overly-inflated opinion of themselves and their profession.
‘It says here that Sarah Sawyer is a generalist in Kensington.’ Receiving no comment, she went on, ‘John Watson is a, no sorry, was a surgeon. It lists him as retired, but gives no details. He also served in the army, but again, no details… So, you will have loads to discuss. They will be here in fifteen minutes. You don’t have many options, so try to be objective.’
Eleanor snorted. She did not like doctors any more and she never cared much for military types either.
.oOOo.
Preceded by a polite tap on the door, Mycroft, John, and Sarah entered the room. Eleanor Earncliffe’s bed had been configured so she could remain semi-seated. Her solicitor, Mr Goodwin, standing at her side, motioned for everyone to please draw up a chair. Mycroft made hasty introductions before claiming to have business elsewhere in the hospice.
John Watson and Sarah Sawyer were not how Eleanor had imagined them. For one thing, she had not been told that Sarah was expecting a baby. And John did not fit her impression of a military man. Yet, they both did that ‘doctor thing’ that she had come to hate: they visually observed her symptoms, assessed, and catalogued her condition. Everyone expressed their unease differently. It was not until Sarah nudged him that John realised he have been clenching and unclenching his free hand. Eleanor waited for someone to say something and Sarah finally did.
‘Eleanor, please tell us about your children.’
While Eleanor spoke, Mr Goodwin retrieved a photo album labelled ‘Evelyn & Peter’ from a side table and handed it to Sarah and John. Here again was the picture that Mycroft had on his iPad. They turned the pages.
‘Peter and Evelyn are currently at home with Roula, their au pair. She home-schools them and has been minding them since I was forced to come here. It is a temporary solution at best. There was nobody else and it was all I could come up with. Roula is anxious to return to France as soon as possible. She will be married next summer and wants to start raising her own family within a year or two.’
‘So, your children aren’t able to visit you?’
‘No. It is better for them to stay away. It is too distressing for them to see me like this.’
Instead of replying, John returned to the album. The photographs revealed the Earncliffes’ family life from the time the twins were born. There were fewer pictures of Patrick, but the earlier ones of mother and children were exquisite. There were pictures of them playing, touring the coast, visiting a farm... typical family snapshots of happier times.
The children both had dark brown hair with a natural wave. Peter’s eyes were of the palest blue, and Evelyn’s were similar with only the slightest hint of green. John could see Sherlock in the faces of these skinny little mop-tops. So much so that it was nearly unbearable to keep turning the pages. He had never imagined what Sherlock had been like as a youngster and part of him would not have been surprised if his friend had materialised as a fully-formed adult.
‘The twins are very advanced for their age,’ Eleanor continued. ‘They both possess innately high intelligence and have been home-schooled since infancy. Peter is very bright and he lets you know it. He’s a bit of a show-off. He was first to speak and first to read.
‘Evelyn is different. Her intelligence fell within perfectly normal parameters until we discovered she was holding back. I mean, really, who is that self-aware at four years old? It is impossible to rate her with any known test. She seems happy enough to let her brother get all the attention… and the blame, when their little schemes fall apart.
‘Both have been encouraged to be artistic, musical, and physically active. They swim like fish and love gymnastics. Peter especially loves gymnastics lately because he wants to be a ninja when he grows up. Evelyn does really well at it too and takes it seriously but I’m not sure that she likes sports at all.'
John wondered why the conversation had stopped and looked up from the photo album.
‘Dr Watson, I don’t mean to be blunt, but I have little time for niceties. How do you expect to cope with raising children when you have such obvious physical limitations?’
Sarah cringed and hoped that John would not respond in such a way to alienate either Eleanor or her solicitor. His ears reddened.
‘I realise I will never be coaching rugby, but I think I will manage just fine,’ was his polite but controlled reply.
The Watsons (for that is how she thought of them) were not what Eleanor had in mind as ideal adoptive parents. Although they were professionals, both medical doctors, and there was no doubt that they were kind, caring people, she felt that her extraordinary children required parents who were less... ordinary.
When she inquired, they told her how they planned to raise and educate their own child and those plans did not align with hers. They planned to send their child to St Basil’s, a local Catholic primary school, whereas her children were to be home-schooled until age eight where places were waiting for them at Aberlour House. From there, Peter would be sent to Harrow, and Evelyn could continue at Gordonstoun, or return to London and attend James Allen’s Girls’ School. Both were destined for Oxford, or perhaps Cambridge as a distant second option. These plans were in place before the children were ever conceived.
Claiming to need some air, John rose from his chair and left the room. Sarah remained and spoke confidentially.
‘Professor Earncliffe, we could agree to everything you say and then ignore your wishes once you are gone, but we are not like that. We are more than willing to take Peter and Evelyn into our care, but to adopt them outright, we will need to raise them as our own. John and I could not bear the thought of sending away any child of ours at such a young age. We had this discussion when I became pregnant and we agreed that we need to be involved with the raising of our child, especially in the primary years. It would have to be the same for any adopted children. If this deems us unsuitable, then I’m very sorry.’
Eleanor lay back with a heavy sigh.
‘I’m sorry too, Dr. Sawyer. It breaks my heart to know that I will not be part of my children’s lives; I’ll never see them realise their potential. I only want the best for them and I have so little time to arrange it.’
.oOOo.
In the corridor, Mycroft and one of the hospice staff, a woman in cheery floral blouse, looked up from their discussion. John leaned back against the wall, his expression not fully masking his irritation.
‘What is the matter, John?’ Mycroft asked.
‘It’s not going to work, Mycroft. Eleanor is… well, let’s just say we have different philosophies on how to raise children.’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘Nothing. I’m not about to get a row with a dying woman, but I couldn’t stay and listen to any more. All that talk about how her children were destined to become great, world leaders, and so forth… This whole breeding and raising of uber-geniuses reeks of eugenics to me.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would seem that way to someone--’
‘These are real children we are talking about, Mycroft! Two little kids; not robots to be programmed. All this talk about their futures and nothing about their present needs. They need their mum, even if she’s dying. They need her, and she refuses to see them.’
‘Only to spare them from what’s to come. Cancer is an ugly disease.’
‘Of course it is! But what can the kids be thinking? Children that age aren’t afraid of death; they don’t even understand it. All that they know is that their mother doesn’t want to see them any more, and that will frighten them. I really don’t understand her. Shouldn’t she want to spend every precious second she has left with them?’
The woman in the cheery blouse excused herself. Mycroft waited until John had calmed down a bit.
‘Well done, John.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That was no ordinary administrator. That was Dr Ladner, and she just happens to hold Eleanor’s Power of Attorney. She is the one who has the final say on the children’s future, and judging by her reaction, you and Sarah should immediately start looking for a larger flat.’
.oOOo.
Next time: Expediting the paperwork...
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: 1820
Author's Notes: Alternate Universe and kid!fic
Previously on The Scions of Deduction...
Scions 101
Scions 102
and now
Scions 103
All of Eleanor Earncliffe’s best laid plans for a life with her family had gone very badly awry in the last year. It started when her husband, Patrick, had passed away prematurely from heart failure and other complications of Huntington’s disease. Then, two months ago, she had suddenly collapsed while shopping for groceries with her children. Emergency MRI revealed a tumour the size of an orange in her brain. She had experienced no symptoms other than fatigue, which she chalked up as inevitable since she was raising two very active five-year olds.
With no immediate family able to take in her twins, this brave woman was spending her last days trying to keep her children out of foster care. She and her late husband had worked so hard to build the perfect foundation for raising their extraordinary children. Right down to their genetics, the twins had been destined, some might even say programmed, for a life of success. They had been given sensible, if not old-fashioned names, suitable for life in public school, university, and success in the world. Secretly, Eleanor hoped that they would become leading academics, such as Patrick and she had been. Their children were to be their legacy: shining examples of the realisation of human potential in an increasingly mundane world
Now, cruel fate intervened. The pain associated with her cancer was nothing compared to knowing that she would not live to see their sixth birthday, never mind the rest of their lives. Still, there was no time for self-pity; she still had so much to do. The enigmatic Mr Holmes had just requested another meeting. One glance at the mirror made her wonder whether the pretty bandanna the nurse wrapped around her head to hide the scars of the exploratory surgery was for her sake, or for the sake of everyone else who had to come in contact with her.
Dr Maya Ladner had been in to prepare her to receive guests. All Eleanor knew was that Mr Holmes was biologically related to the twins and although he could not adopt the children himself, he would be bringing with him the couple he selected for that responsibility.
‘They’re both doctors. That should please you,’ Maya said.
‘Hmmph. Why should that please me?’ Doctors always seemed to have a overly-inflated opinion of themselves and their profession.
‘It says here that Sarah Sawyer is a generalist in Kensington.’ Receiving no comment, she went on, ‘John Watson is a, no sorry, was a surgeon. It lists him as retired, but gives no details. He also served in the army, but again, no details… So, you will have loads to discuss. They will be here in fifteen minutes. You don’t have many options, so try to be objective.’
Eleanor snorted. She did not like doctors any more and she never cared much for military types either.
.oOOo.
Preceded by a polite tap on the door, Mycroft, John, and Sarah entered the room. Eleanor Earncliffe’s bed had been configured so she could remain semi-seated. Her solicitor, Mr Goodwin, standing at her side, motioned for everyone to please draw up a chair. Mycroft made hasty introductions before claiming to have business elsewhere in the hospice.
John Watson and Sarah Sawyer were not how Eleanor had imagined them. For one thing, she had not been told that Sarah was expecting a baby. And John did not fit her impression of a military man. Yet, they both did that ‘doctor thing’ that she had come to hate: they visually observed her symptoms, assessed, and catalogued her condition. Everyone expressed their unease differently. It was not until Sarah nudged him that John realised he have been clenching and unclenching his free hand. Eleanor waited for someone to say something and Sarah finally did.
‘Eleanor, please tell us about your children.’
While Eleanor spoke, Mr Goodwin retrieved a photo album labelled ‘Evelyn & Peter’ from a side table and handed it to Sarah and John. Here again was the picture that Mycroft had on his iPad. They turned the pages.
‘Peter and Evelyn are currently at home with Roula, their au pair. She home-schools them and has been minding them since I was forced to come here. It is a temporary solution at best. There was nobody else and it was all I could come up with. Roula is anxious to return to France as soon as possible. She will be married next summer and wants to start raising her own family within a year or two.’
‘So, your children aren’t able to visit you?’
‘No. It is better for them to stay away. It is too distressing for them to see me like this.’
Instead of replying, John returned to the album. The photographs revealed the Earncliffes’ family life from the time the twins were born. There were fewer pictures of Patrick, but the earlier ones of mother and children were exquisite. There were pictures of them playing, touring the coast, visiting a farm... typical family snapshots of happier times.
The children both had dark brown hair with a natural wave. Peter’s eyes were of the palest blue, and Evelyn’s were similar with only the slightest hint of green. John could see Sherlock in the faces of these skinny little mop-tops. So much so that it was nearly unbearable to keep turning the pages. He had never imagined what Sherlock had been like as a youngster and part of him would not have been surprised if his friend had materialised as a fully-formed adult.
‘The twins are very advanced for their age,’ Eleanor continued. ‘They both possess innately high intelligence and have been home-schooled since infancy. Peter is very bright and he lets you know it. He’s a bit of a show-off. He was first to speak and first to read.
‘Evelyn is different. Her intelligence fell within perfectly normal parameters until we discovered she was holding back. I mean, really, who is that self-aware at four years old? It is impossible to rate her with any known test. She seems happy enough to let her brother get all the attention… and the blame, when their little schemes fall apart.
‘Both have been encouraged to be artistic, musical, and physically active. They swim like fish and love gymnastics. Peter especially loves gymnastics lately because he wants to be a ninja when he grows up. Evelyn does really well at it too and takes it seriously but I’m not sure that she likes sports at all.'
John wondered why the conversation had stopped and looked up from the photo album.
‘Dr Watson, I don’t mean to be blunt, but I have little time for niceties. How do you expect to cope with raising children when you have such obvious physical limitations?’
Sarah cringed and hoped that John would not respond in such a way to alienate either Eleanor or her solicitor. His ears reddened.
‘I realise I will never be coaching rugby, but I think I will manage just fine,’ was his polite but controlled reply.
The Watsons (for that is how she thought of them) were not what Eleanor had in mind as ideal adoptive parents. Although they were professionals, both medical doctors, and there was no doubt that they were kind, caring people, she felt that her extraordinary children required parents who were less... ordinary.
When she inquired, they told her how they planned to raise and educate their own child and those plans did not align with hers. They planned to send their child to St Basil’s, a local Catholic primary school, whereas her children were to be home-schooled until age eight where places were waiting for them at Aberlour House. From there, Peter would be sent to Harrow, and Evelyn could continue at Gordonstoun, or return to London and attend James Allen’s Girls’ School. Both were destined for Oxford, or perhaps Cambridge as a distant second option. These plans were in place before the children were ever conceived.
Claiming to need some air, John rose from his chair and left the room. Sarah remained and spoke confidentially.
‘Professor Earncliffe, we could agree to everything you say and then ignore your wishes once you are gone, but we are not like that. We are more than willing to take Peter and Evelyn into our care, but to adopt them outright, we will need to raise them as our own. John and I could not bear the thought of sending away any child of ours at such a young age. We had this discussion when I became pregnant and we agreed that we need to be involved with the raising of our child, especially in the primary years. It would have to be the same for any adopted children. If this deems us unsuitable, then I’m very sorry.’
Eleanor lay back with a heavy sigh.
‘I’m sorry too, Dr. Sawyer. It breaks my heart to know that I will not be part of my children’s lives; I’ll never see them realise their potential. I only want the best for them and I have so little time to arrange it.’
.oOOo.
In the corridor, Mycroft and one of the hospice staff, a woman in cheery floral blouse, looked up from their discussion. John leaned back against the wall, his expression not fully masking his irritation.
‘What is the matter, John?’ Mycroft asked.
‘It’s not going to work, Mycroft. Eleanor is… well, let’s just say we have different philosophies on how to raise children.’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘Nothing. I’m not about to get a row with a dying woman, but I couldn’t stay and listen to any more. All that talk about how her children were destined to become great, world leaders, and so forth… This whole breeding and raising of uber-geniuses reeks of eugenics to me.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would seem that way to someone--’
‘These are real children we are talking about, Mycroft! Two little kids; not robots to be programmed. All this talk about their futures and nothing about their present needs. They need their mum, even if she’s dying. They need her, and she refuses to see them.’
‘Only to spare them from what’s to come. Cancer is an ugly disease.’
‘Of course it is! But what can the kids be thinking? Children that age aren’t afraid of death; they don’t even understand it. All that they know is that their mother doesn’t want to see them any more, and that will frighten them. I really don’t understand her. Shouldn’t she want to spend every precious second she has left with them?’
The woman in the cheery blouse excused herself. Mycroft waited until John had calmed down a bit.
‘Well done, John.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That was no ordinary administrator. That was Dr Ladner, and she just happens to hold Eleanor’s Power of Attorney. She is the one who has the final say on the children’s future, and judging by her reaction, you and Sarah should immediately start looking for a larger flat.’
.oOOo.
Next time: Expediting the paperwork...