Merry Christmas to @sorrowsflower! I hope you enjoy this little fic; it’s sort of parent!lock, and rather fluffy, and I hope it has a bit of holiday spirit without being too OOC! Thank you so much to @equusgirl for arranging this Secret Santa Adlock exchange; it’s a wonderful way to inspire creativity and bring the ship together! Hope all my fellow members of the Adlock yacht have a wonderful 2017!
“Please tell me we’re not exchanging gifts,” Sherlock groaned as he opened the door for Irene, eyeing the packages hanging from her arms. It was immediately apparent that he was in a more peevish mood than usual; the past week had been marked by an abundance of holiday functions and a shortage of actual cases, a balance that Sherlock found quite unpleasant.
“You do know how to melt a girl’s heart,” Irene sighed, shouldering past him to lay down her parcels and remove her snow-dampened coat. “And hello to you, too. No, I just thought I’d bring some cider; non-alcoholic of course. I’m dying for a glass of good champagne, but … “ She motioned vaguely towards her stomach, although at three months pregnant, the physical changes were still only barely sufficient to warrant an update in wardrobe.
Sherlock, however, was not in the mood to acknowledge anyone’s woes but his own. “Do you know I haven’t had a single client come forward with a case in four days? Not even with something boring enough to turn down. I phoned Lestrade; nothing in nearly a week that’s stumped Scotland Yard? Impossible.” He threw himself back down onto the couch and resumed staring at the ceiling, apparently finding Irene completely capable of making herself comfortable without welcome.
“What a shame. Perhaps even London’s criminal classes have found themselves overtaken by the holiday spirit,” Irene replied sardonically, making her way to the kitchen in an attempt to find some suitable drinking glasses. She wrinkled her nose at the dishes that had collected beside the sink; several days’ worth, by the look of it. “I suppose you could spend the extra time cleaning up the flat a bit. A wreath or something wouldn’t completely kill the décor here, either.”
“Mmm, I thought that was Mrs. Hudson’s responsibility.”
“Doesn’t usually fall under the job description of landlady, no.”
“Well, all the holiday nonsense was generally John’s responsibility.” Sherlock scowled at that. Irene had to admit, seasonal decorating (or rather, decorating at all) wasn’t precisely her vision of an ideal pastime either; her usual posh surroundings were a result of having people to do the work for her. She recalled the enthusiasm with which Kate had furnished her flat in Belgravia several years ago after being told that price was no concern; her own response had been one of fond indulgence for Kate but mainly indifference for the seasonal décor itself. Still, surrounded by the dingy results of having Sherlock resume sole responsibility for the housekeeping made at least a bare minimum of effort for holiday cheer a bit more desirable.
“You do realize you will have to begin decorating this place for Christmas, right? No child wants to live in a dark boring flat all winter.”
Sherlock scoffed. “By this time next year, the child’s visual development will barely enable it to differentiate colors from halfway across the room. At six months of age, an infant’s perceptual discrimination of hues has only reached about half of its adult capacity, and depth perception is even worse. I’m quite certain Rosie couldn’t tell me apart from John for nearly the first five months of life, which was quite useful for some of my experiments. You might as well throw some brightly covered toys around the room instead of spending a significant amount of time and money purchasing and assembling Christmas decorations, which besides are simply a marketing strategy to – “
He froze suddenly, turning to look at Irene with a look of horror on his face. She merely cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“You don’t mean to say … If this child will be at Baker Street next Christmas … You’re expecting me to be the primary caregiver?”
“God no!” Irene laughed, "I do want the poor thing to survive to its first birthday. I’m suggesting the three of us spend some time at Baker Street after the birth. A temporary arrangement of course. I mean, you could live in my flat for a while I suppose; it’s certainly more spacious, but I’m a bit wary about the way you treat furniture, and the rent here is certainly more affordable. I’m not suggesting either of us is currently wanting in funds, but we do have the child’s educational future to consider …”
Irene imparted this all casually, seemingly putting more attention to her current search through Sherlock’s kitchen cabinets for suitable wine glasses than to their actual conversation. Sherlock, however, seemed at a temporary and unusual loss for words. He opened his mouth and drew a breath, considered for a moment, and then closed it again, watching Irene closely.
“Are you saying,” Sherlock clarified slowly when it was clear that Irene had said all she had intended to, “that you wish to move in after the child’s birth? For an extended period of time?”
At the serious tone of Sherlock’s voice, Irene stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. She leaned against the countertop, studying his face. “Temporarily. And it was only a suggestion, but I believe it would make sense. Dividing the responsibilities of childcare, if you will. God knows I’d go mad if I were responsible for all parenting duties twenty-four hours a day. Of course, I could hire a nanny if you’re opposed to the idea …”
Sherlock shuddered. “Obviously not. Mycroft and I were subjected to a dreadful succession of nannies in our youth. Dim-witted tyrants, every one of them. In the matter of our child’s intelligence, I assume nature would win out, but the nurture element shouldn’t be completely disregarded.”
“Precisely. It’s not like you don’t have plenty of room here since John moved out. I’m assuming Mrs. Hudson certainly wouldn’t object to a fresh new presence to spoil either.”
“Are you referring to the infant or to yourself?”
“Both, I suppose.” Irene rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Mrs. Hudson had rather quickly gotten over her initial surprise at discovering that someone (and a woman!) had captured Sherlock’s interest, and her mothering instinct was instantly put into overdrive, perhaps even more so than when Sherlock and John had first taken up lodgings in the flat. Tea and biscuits were brought at an alarming rate, being not only an expression of her hospitality but also a convenient excuse to engage in conversation. It was not difficult to understand how Mrs. Hudson found something glamorous about Irene, perhaps reminding her of her own youthful days. Irene’s courteous yet vague responses to questions that had anything to do with her past only stoked the landlady’s curiosity.
“No need to make plans just yet,” Irene clarified. “We still have a while to come up with a suitable arrangement for all parties.” She huffed in irritation as her search came up empty. It was down to either washing dishes herself or settling on what was available. “Coffee mugs okay, I suppose?” She sighed, raising an eyebrow to Sherlock and hoping he’d catch on to her annoyance at his apparent inability to keep up with the basics of housework
Sherlock, however, appeared to be in his own world. Irene wondered if he had heard the last part of her conversation at all; his eyes appeared distant as he stared at the wall, absorbed in his own thoughts. “Sherlock?”
“Hmm? Yes, fine,” he answered. Irene was left wondering which part of the conversation he was referring to, but his current mood suggested that trying to get any more from him this evening would be a futile effort.
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The next twenty-four hours proved to be quite unpleasant for most of London’s residents. Temperatures dropped a further ten degrees from their already-bone chilling status, and snow blanketed the city at a rate that made travel quite inconvenient. For Sherlock, however, the day was a marked improvement from the rest of the week. Lestrade had finally phoned with an interesting case involving the theft of a valued Neoclassic painting from a private collector on Courtenay Avenue, presumably, while the owner was fast asleep in the next-door room. Sherlock had, of course, been able to provide almost all the necessary insight as to how a thief could bypass the owner’s state-of-the-art security system and was able to direct Lestrade to the criminal’s likely identity and location within less than half an hour of being called to the scene. An open-and-shut case, perhaps, but still a much-needed opportunity for Sherlock to show off and exercise his skills on something other than deducing the paternity of soap opera characters. It had taken Irene’s input, however, to track down the likely location of the painting itself; during her time in Italy, she had come across a specific family of import who had taken a liking to the particular artist in question, and had a tendency to search out such pieces on the black market (and, of course, brag about such acquisitions afterwards). Sherlock made a mental note to pry into this aspect of her history a bit more later, but in the meantime had imparted the information to Lestrade, who by now, he suspected, was within an hour or two of relocating the missing piece.
Which meant, of course, that it was none of Sherlock’s concern anymore. But even this brief case had improved his mood considerably, much to Irene’s relief. She had intended to spend the night in her own lodgings, especially considering Sherlock’s pugnacious attitude the previous evening, but his near-childlike glee at the investigation and continuing lightheartedness in the ensuing hours helped to change her mind. Observing his remarkable mind in action, his senses at the highest alert, always reminded her of what precisely caught her attention about him in the first place. The way her pulse raced when they played off of each other’s deductions, adding to observations with their own unique perspectives and intuitions, had originally been foreign to her, and a source of much consternation and dismay. Now, however, she looked forward to such moments with something bordering on addiction, finding from them an even greater thrill than from her previous successes in acquiring advantageous pieces of information from her clients in their most vulnerable moments.
Of course, the current weather had played into her decision as well; the thought of traversing the icy streets of London to her flat halfway across the city in sub-freezing temperatures had been decidedly unpleasant. Spending the night in Sherlock’s bed sounded infinitely more appealing, and not just for the relative warmth it offered.
Overall, Irene thought that Sherlock had reacted to the news of her pregnancy rather well. Despite her natural ability to interpret and predict individuals’ inclinations, she found herself rather curious and apprehensive about Sherlock’s response to such information. It seemed so incongruous with his views of himself and his future that she found herself unable to foresee with any certainty how he would react. On the whole, however, he took the news rather well; in fact, it had changed his life, and furthermore, their relationship, rather little. Oh, he had had his moment of shock; a range of emotions, from disbelief to dismay to horror and, finally, to astonishment, had flickered across his face in the moments following the announcement. In the weeks afterward, however, he had addressed the subject very little. She had faced the brief fear that this was some form of denial but soon dismissed that concern. Whenever the topic did arise, intentionally or not, Sherlock’s responses indicated that he was indeed considering the subject, and had gone so far as to form opinions on it (his opinions on the “correct” way to raise a child being, of course, the exact opposite of everything his own parents had done). It simply seemed that the birth itself was such a distant issue and that the specifics would fall into place when the time came; for all of Sherlock’s brainpower, he seemed to attribute little effort to long-term planning.
There was one area, though, in which Irene noticed an immediate and rather unwelcome change in Sherlock’s behavior: that of their love life. Over the months of Sherlock’s enforced exile from London during his presumed death, and Irene’s own residence in the city over the previous eight months, Sherlock’s initial awkwardness with matters relating to physical intimacy had been replaced with a rapid learning curve of Irene’s preferences, and a spirited implementation of such knowledge. His inexperience mattered little when he put his mind to something new, after all, and Irene was quite the demanding teacher. But the news of her pregnancy had seemed, for some inexplicable reason, to have reverted his behavior to that of the novice on their first night in Montenegro. It wasn’t that he was inattentive; far from it. Rather, his ambition to maximize her enjoyment seemed to be replaced by a renewed desire to simply observe, to tantalize, to run his fingertips over every inch of her sensitive flesh and memorize every curve. Clutches that left bruises on her hips were replaced with feather-light caresses and soft kisses. Rather than matching her assertive inclinations, he treated her like a work of art prone to shatter under anything but the most discerning of touches.
Well, that simply wouldn’t do. It’s not like he would break her; the only broken items resulting from their past behavior had been a couple of shattered lamps and some torn pieces of pricey lingerie. It was sweet, in a way. Irene had initially interpreted this as an indication that he somehow viewed her as more fragile, less of the powerful and fully capable woman he had come to respect so deeply: a thought that offended her greatly. However, after noticing that his expectations of her abilities had not wavered in any other area, she revised this conjecture. Her repeated insinuations that sex was not only perfectly safe, but in her case very welcome, during pregnancy also had no effect, and she assumed that Sherlock must have carried out plenty of his own research on pregnancy and childbearing and would be fully aware of this already. So that was not the issue either. Rather, she decided, this new exploration of her was something he wanted to do, perhaps at the expense of considering their previously more enjoyable activities. As she studied his expression one night, his eyes slowly following the paths of his hands as they drifted over the contours of her frame, she understood that this was fascinating for him. The opportunity to catalog the changes of her pregnancy, to identify every change in response and every physical alteration and commit them to memory, was an experience that may never be presented to him again. This exploration seemed to inspire in him an awe that seemed intensely private in a way that made her hesitant to address the subject with words.
Well, if not words, then perhaps actions would do the trick. As charming as the reasons behind his behavior may be, Irene was becoming quite exasperated with it. So one evening several weeks into this change in conduct, when she could no longer stand his delicate caresses that lacked any indication of further intimacy, she pushed him roughly back onto the sheets and proceeded to demonstrate to him precisely how she would like him to once again treat her – that is, not gently at all. The poor man had seemed rather shocked; his clothing may have easily hidden the scratches on his back, but she assumed he had to come up with some excuse for his slightly swollen bottom lip the next day. He had seemed to rather enjoy it in the long run, though, and she found in the following weeks that it did the trick more than an actual conversation would have. Although she still found his gaze lingering on her a bit longer than was typical, as long as the evenings still ended in a manner she found significantly more enjoyable she had little reason to complain.
Tonight, however, Sherlock’s frustrating behavior seemed to have returned, although the reasons behind it seemed somewhat different. His fingers still ghosted over her skin, raising goosebumps as they traced paths from her throat to her breasts, down her arms, and to her fingertips, followed occasionally by the touch of his lips and a warm puff of breath. But the touch carried no hint of further intimacy, despite the fact that he had to notice how the breath caught in Irene’s throat over particularly sensitive areas of skin. In fact, Irene was beginning to wonder if he was deliberately being irritating, or if he was really so deep in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize the effect he was having on her. It did cross her mind that he could be trying to lower her inhibitions, perhaps make her more agreeable to a particular whim or suggestion. She wouldn’t put it past him; she assumed he had an encyclopedic knowledge of her most sensitive erogenous zones and collection of previous responses to various types of stimulation, and she appreciated this awareness when it was applied for her benefit. But he was nothing if not resourceful in his application of knowledge.
“Would you just tell me what you want?” She snapped suddenly, causing Sherlock to freeze momentarily.
“What do you mean?” he asked, sitting up on an elbow and narrowing his eyes at her. Irene didn’t bother to respond, merely shooting him an exasperated glare. Sherlock sighed in acknowledgment; one of the first things both of them had had to confront in their unusual relationship was that they couldn’t get away with keeping things from each other as they could everyone else.
“I was just considering our conversation the other day. I don’t believe I ever gave you a satisfactory answer.”
“You mean inviting that lovely girl from the morgue to join us some evening?” Irene asked innocently. Of course, she knew the actual conversation he was referring to; she merely liked to make the detective blush. Despite their intimate familiarity with each other, Sherlock was still quite reluctant to actually talk about such matters, something Irene found charming and yet quite amusing.
“No, the other one. About you coming to live in Baker Street for a while after the delivery,” he answered hesitantly. Irene smiled inwardly at his choice of wording. He tended to address their future child in such clinical terms: “the infant” instead of “our son or daughter,” “the delivery” instead of “the birth of our child.” What others might take for a lack of affection or a deliberate distancing from the responsibilities of parenthood was truly nothing of the sort, Irene realized. Rather, it was a way for Sherlock to frame the situation in a logical, achievable manner, instead of something insurmountable and far removed from his areas of expertise.
“And?” Irene prodded, clearly seeing that the subject was making him somewhat uncomfortable.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, his eyes drifting from hers to focus awkwardly on a piece of lace adorning her collarbone, which he began to fidget with distractedly, “perhaps it would be beneficial for you to make the move a bit sooner?”
Irene paused. She hadn’t been expecting that. In truth, she had wondered if he would turn down her request altogether. Despite the apparent enjoyment he derived from their unique partnership, and the respect that she knew he had for her abilities, she understood that he was still very much a creature of habit. Having her visit his flat every few days was all very fine, but when it came down to having to adapt to the changes in lifestyle that a new resident required (whether that be changes in sleeping habits or locations to store spare body parts), he may decide living alone was simply more convenient. True, he had appreciated John’s presence and, she suspected, had become quite depressed when he moved in with Mary, but she assumed that John would be more compliant to Sherlock’s eccentricities than she would. Having two headstrong individuals under the same roof may be somewhat tempestuous. And once the baby came … well, that was another matter entirely. Irene had vaguely wondered if even suggesting subjecting the detective to a demanding, screaming infant at all hours of the day and night, regardless of the need for in-depth research or mind palace excursions, was somewhat cruel in itself.
Not to mention, there were her own wishes to consider. It was certainly true that, as she had mentioned to Sherlock, she had no wish to be solely responsible for parenting duties twenty-four hours a day. The very idea made her shudder. But the idea of hiring a nanny of some sort did not seem to be an attractive option either. Perhaps it was her own dealings with the shadier characters the world had to offer that made her so distrustful of strangers, but regardless of the reasons, she had no desire to subject her own progeny to the hands of fate. Had she still had Kate, or a similar companion who had already proven to be reliable and competent, the situation might be different. As it was, Sherlock may not be the ideal caregiver, but considering the child’s DNA would be half his anyway, she assumed all the possible damage Sherlock could conceivably do to the child’s well-being was already done.
There was another reason, however, that Irene had wanted to postpone the decision about living arrangements, and one that was much more personal. In truth, she had never actually moved in with anyone. Rather, they had always moved in with her, in line with the more dominant standing she had held in her relationships in the past. Her past relationships had always been about what others could contribute to her own happiness; it’s not that she didn’t care for Kate and her previous lovers in her own way, but they were simply a part of her life and not something that she built up the structure of her existence around. Her living arrangements had always been hers alone; the extent to which lovers were or were not incorporated into those arrangements were invariably up to her. The relationship ended, and they moved out, and Irene’s life would go on quite as before. Moving in with someone else, however, was a different matter entirely. It took a certain amount of trust, of cooperation, that she found somewhat daunting. Would she really be willing to put up with Sherlock’s eccentricities on a daily basis, when he was shooting the walls out of boredom or pacing the flat at 2 AM after three straight sleepless days? When Mrs. Hudson overheard their arguments? When Sherlock was capable of observing and deducing all her daily comings and goings from the flat, become privy to the most mundane details of her daily schedule?
Of course, she could suggest Sherlock move in with her for a time. Besides, she was the one giving birth, and perhaps he should be left with the rest of the requirements for change. In reality, though, the idea of removing Sherlock from Baker Street, from Mrs. Hudson, from the routines of the life that he had built over the past seven years seemed somewhat cruel. Although Sherlock would deny it, he was a creature of habit, and forcing him out of his routines and surroundings seemed to jar him on a fundamental level. She had seen him during his exile from life in London after his orchestrated “death,” and what she had observed was a man very close to the depths of defeat. Of course, this had been an extreme circumstance, and asking him to move to another part of London was certainly not the equivalent of requiring him to abandon everything and everyone he knew and cared about, with no guarantee of a safe return. But in comparison, Irene was quite adaptable. God knows how many times she had changed homes, colleagues, even nationalities, and identities at the drop of a hat, dependent only on her own whims and the requirements of the goals at hand. Not only was she willing to do so, but she very often enjoyed it. She felt no great attachment to her current lodgings, and she hadn’t been exaggerating when she expressed her concerns about allowing an infant – and Sherlock Holmes – near her designer furnishings and priceless works of art. All in all, Baker Street was the more reasonable option. And it was only temporary, after all, to give the child a sense of stability during its first few months of life.
But that didn’t mean now. The birth was still six months away if all went smoothly. And these next six months may be her last opportunity for quite some time to fully maintain the freedom and independence she had always valued so highly.
Sherlock watched her expression carefully as these thoughts flickered through her mind, but she was careful not to display any of the emotions conflicting beneath the surface. She wanted to hear his own reasoning behind the request without him being aware of or influenced by her own.
“Sooner?” She echoed, “Because …? Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but if it’s just because Mrs. Hudson has taken a narrower view of her duties as landlady I’m not interested. I’m not about to become your housekeeper either, or worse yet, fill in for your skull.”
Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Why are both you and John so against that idea? Besides, you’d be a much better sounding board than either. In fact, you have a tendency to … “ He hesitated, his aversion to giving compliments warring with his desire to persuade Irene, “ … more than just listen. You don’t just reflect, you … occasionally … enhance.”
“Enhance? Do go on?” Irene smirked. Sherlock was quite unskilled at flattery when it was truly intended, rather than as part of some sort of scheme, and she found it amusing to draw it out of him.
“Yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “Like today, the case would have taken significantly longer to be fully wrapped up if you had not had the opportunity to impart your knowledge of the Verucci family.” He shot a glance at her that told her he would find a way to draw more information about her affiliation with said family in the future. “There are certain – aspects – of valuable information you can provide. And when your input’s not needed, I still have the skull.”
Irene decided to ignore that last comment. “You just need my help on cases then? So why not just invite me along on some, like you have been?”
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Sherlock scoffed, “The majority of my case-related insights happen here, away from the crime scene and Scotland Yard’s inane chatter. Besides, moving in early would benefit you, too.”
“How is that?” Irene asked. She wanted to get to the actual root of his request and was naturally interested in any situation where he claimed to be worrying about her well-being.
“Well, you’ll have plenty of adjusting to do after the birth,” he pointed out. “Sleep interruptions, feeding schedules, hormonal changes … Might as well have everything else going smoothly. Up to eighty percent of women experience some degree of depression after giving birth. It wouldn’t do to have you adjusting to the requirements of a newborn and trying to move into a new flat at the same time. The adaptations required – “
“Sherlock,” Irene cut him off, “I once changed my country of residence four times in a year, and my identities along with it.” She could tell by the spark in Sherlock’s eyes that his interest was immediately piqued, as it always was by any hints about her carefully-concealed past, but she sharply veered from that line of conversation. “Are you seriously suggesting that I might have trouble adapting after moving ten minutes from my flat in a city I’m thoroughly familiar with?”
Sherlock frowned. “Of course not. I was merely – “
“Good,” Irene snapped. “I should hope not.”
“I was merely suggesting,” Sherlock continued, “That it would be perfectly reasonable to try to make any time-consuming adjustments before the infant arrives. Besides, many women go through a period of nesting shortly before childbirth, and it would be advantageous to be in the actual location of the child’s lodgings when such an instinct emerges.”
Irene scoffed. The very idea of an uncontrollable urge to clean and straighten this flat – an impossible act in itself - in preparation for the child was quite laughable. But she was somewhat amused by the thought of Sherlock doing research into women’s pre-motherhood behavior, and more than slightly curious about what else he had learned and what he might be –misguidedly – expecting. She made a mental note to pry into that more later.
“I promise to control any housekeeping urges until they can be carried out in the proper location,” she quipped. “Really, Sherlock, everything will be fine. No reason to rush the issue when all of these changes are still half a year away. Besides, I can think of much better ways we could be spending the evening,” she added suggestively, lightly running her toes down the side of his leg beneath the sheets and hoping the conversation was at an end.
She was surprised to see, however, that Sherlock appeared somewhat dismayed at her apparent dismissal of the subject. He opened his mouth in protest, then shut it again, a look of concentration on his brow. It suddenly occurred to her that there may be more to the issue than she had fully considered. He seemed, possibly, very slightly … hurt. And that shocked her.
It suddenly occurred to her that, despite the aloof nature that the detective so desperately wanted to project, the majority of his recent years had not been lived alone. Certainly not the most pleasant of those recent years. The majority of the cases he had recounted to her - those that he seemed to recall with fondness (although he would scoff at such a sentimental term) - had taken place in the years in which he had shared the flat with John, enjoying his partnership in all but the dullest and routine of cases. In the months he had spent traveling from one country to the next after his apparent suicide, he had routinely sought her out, always attributing his presence to a need for information or assistance in some of the finer points of hunting down the remaining members of Moriarty’s network. She had easily seen through this, though, identifying his fundamental need to connect with someone – anyone – from his old life, even someone who had apparently manipulated and used him for her own devices. During that time, as in all others, he had shielded any underlying vulnerabilities devoutly, but she perceived a longing in him, a desperation, that she had never sensed during their previous encounters in London, and indeed had seemed to diminish since his return. And, of course, she had picked up on hints of his life before John Watson, before Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and the images she had formed in her mind of this “former” Sherlock Holmes were quite dark indeed. Of course, he was far from alone now, with her own frequent visits and those from John and Mary and Molly, the mothering of Mrs. Hudson, the collaborations with Lestrade and the rest of the force … but still, perhaps there was a desire in him for some sort of stable, steadfast presence, although he would flat-out deny it should the subject ever arise. He was probably hardly aware of it himself.
“I’ll think about it,” she responded more softly, looking him in the eyes so he knew she was serious about it this time. “I’m not saying yes, though, but I will consider it. For all of us.”
Sherlock’s gaze briefly flickered down towards her stomach, the full implications of “all of us” lending the moment an unexpected gravity. “Yes. That would be fine,” he answered, looking back up at her. He drew a breath, the distant look in his eyes quickly replaced by their usual intensity. “Now, regarding plans for the remainder of the evening, you were suggesting … ?”
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“You really don’t want to join us tonight?” Sherlock inquired in disbelief, securing his scarf around his neck in preparation to leave the flat. “Yes, yes, I know it’s Christmas Eve and all that, but I really didn’t think that would matter to you. Even John’s coming, and that’s after he promised Mary we’d all be at their place for dinner.”
“Yes, I’m sure Mary was really heartbroken that she didn’t have to prepare a holiday dinner for a dozen people while caring for a ten-month-old daughter,” Irene sighed, further settling into Sherlock’s armchair with a mug of hot tea. “Really, I’d rather stay in tonight. You boys go and have fun.” The irony of that comment was completely overlooked by Sherlock, who considered the investigation of a gruesome strangulation outside a department store the night before Christmas quite fun indeed.
Sherlock paused to study her for a moment. Recently, whenever Lestrade phoned with an investigation requiring his skills, he would invite Irene along if she was in the vicinity. She would often agree to join him, finding such occasions welcome opportunities to exercise her own perceptiveness in the absence of her former modes of misbehavior, and when she didn’t she always had valid engagements requiring her attention elsewhere. But tonight – well tonight would be so boring for her otherwise, and boring really didn’t suit her.
He didn’t press the issue any further, quite frankly too eager to get started on a new case to do so, but a twinge of concern did enter his mind. Perhaps he had been wrong to expect Irene to remain precisely the same throughout her pregnancy and ensuing motherhood. He hadn’t expected her brilliant mind, her fierce independence, her calculating assessment of the world to change just because a little being was growing inside her, or even when that little being emerged and was dependent on her for survival. Yes, of course, it would change things for a bit, as in circumstances and flexibility. Of course, he didn’t expect her to leave a two-day-old infant crying alone in the crib as they went to chase criminals through the streets of London. But when he thought of motherhood where Irene was concerned, the idea of feminine domesticity never really entered his mind. He fully expected her to resume traveling the world and misbehaving in various manners once the child reached an age in which that was even remotely feasible, hopefully with frequent visits to London between.
Not that turning down the opportunity to join him on a single, unexpected case during an admittedly icy night signified anything of import. It just seemed slightly incongruous with previous patterns, and he made a mental note to pursue the question in greater depth later. Irene had been fortunate enough to escape the worst of morning sickness symptoms during her first trimester, and in general had experienced very little physical discomfort. Perhaps she was experiencing some distress that he had somehow overlooked, a theory that seemed quite unlikely.
For now though, he would have to put the question out of his mind. A crime scene awaited.
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It was nearly one in the morning before Sherlock returned to Baker Street, still exuberant over the rush of one deduction following another. He had been at the top of his game tonight, really, and it was a shame that Irene had missed it. Lestrade hadn’t seemed too impressed either, come to think of it; Sherlock reflected that maybe the idea of overseeing a rather grisly murder investigation may not be Lestrade’s idea of an enjoyable Christmas eve. John had seemed rather pleased to be back to their old partnership, however. It was almost like old times.
Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts on his way up the stairwell to his flat, however, when he met Mary descending. Her presence was unexpected enough to cause him to pause and blink dully for a moment, clearing his head of the flurry of activity brought on by the case.
“Mary?” he demanded incredulously, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Rosie?”
Mary laughed. “Babysitter, Sherlock. Moms need their time off too. Did you and John have fun?”
“Yes, but – “ Sherlock paused, rapidly running his eyes over her to pick up on any potential sources of information. “Glitter. You have glitter on your clothing, and judging by your slightly wearied posture have been on your feet for several hours. Glitter could potentially lead to several rather interesting lines of inquiry in most cases, but considering you’re leaving my flat, and that you smell slightly of earl grey tea and pine needles, the only possible interpretation is that you’ve been –“ He paused and wrinkled his nose. “Decorating.”
Mary laughed and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” She answered with a grin, pushing past him on the way down the stairs.
“Wait, why –“ Sherlock demanded, but seeing the mischievous glint in Mary’s eye and her determination to leave the flat without another word, decided his question would be more quickly answered by simply investigating, as it were, the scene of the crime.
Upon opening the door to his flat, his senses were immediately overwhelmed by the scent of freshly cut pine, and the bright, multi-colored lights of a newly, and prior to his encounter with Mary, unexpectedly assembled Christmas tree in the corner of his usually dark living room. Despite his lack of interest in the season’s festivities, he had to admit it was eye-catching, despite being rather hastily assembled; the strings of light were perhaps a tad bit uneven, and the decorators seemed to have run out of garland about three-quarters of the way up the tree, but otherwise the brightly-colored baubles and sprigs of winter fauna did give the dingy room a liveliness that it usually lacked. A few flickering candles had been tastefully aligned on the fireplace mantel (displacing a few of his own items, something he made a mental note to grumble about later), intertwined with some strings of holly and pine, toning the feel of the décor down from potentially gaudy to actually rather elegant. It seemed that the decorator was aiming for somewhat of a romantic touch, which of course would only be reasonable –
“Wait, not quite finished,” Irene interrupted his line of thinking, squeezing out from behind the tree where she had been hidden, busily trying to finish up the last touches before Sherlock’s return. “John phoned Mary twenty minutes ago to let us know everything was almost wrapped up.” He noted that her feet were bare and her hair was loose and comfortable, signifying that she was probably intending to stay the night. She was wearing a simple, silken red robe, tied high on her waist above the curve of her growing stomach; Sherlock couldn’t help but be vaguely reminded of what that implied for this time next year. He found that he had no desire to clear his mind of the image of their infant son or daughter, blinking up at a tree much like this one.
“There,” Irene declared with satisfaction, adding the final touch to her and Mary’s work – Sherlock’s mantel place skull on top of the tree. “Finished. Well? What do you think?”
Sherlock frowned, more for show than out of actual disapproval. “It will be rather hard to address that up there,” he grumbled.
“I don’t think you’ll have much need to consult with Billy anytime soon,” Irene smirked. Sherlock shot her a glare, making a mental note to berate John for revealing to her his name for the skull. “You already admitted that I was a much better substitute for case-related reflections.”
Sherlock stared at her for a moment. “Are you implying … You intend to be here at Baker Street for a significant portion of the near future?”
Irene laughed. “That’s one way to put it. Yes, Sherlock, I’ve considered your suggestion for moving in somewhat prior to the child’s birth, and I think the argument does have its merits.”
Sherlock’s eyes flickered for a moment, a look Irene interpreted as satisfaction, triumph, and, perhaps, even a bit of joy. “Yes. Good. I knew you’d see the logic in it.”
“Hmm,” Irene rolled her eyes.
“Perhaps I’ll start moving a few things over tomorrow. We can find better ways to spend Christmas eve right now, though,” she added mischievously, stealing over to where Sherlock stood and brushing some melting snow off his shoulders before threading the scarf from around his throat, “Unless you have other plans, that is.”
“I think Scotland Yard can function without me for one holiday,” Sherlock answered gravely, running a thumb slowly across her cheek to remove some stray glitter. She smiled up at him softly, the look of contentment in his eyes warming her more than the crackling fireplace ever could. Baker Street may not be as elegant as the lodgings she was accustomed to, and its eccentric resident would take some compromise for both parties, and it was only temporary … and yet it was already starting to feel rather like home.
“I rather think they’ll have to,” she whispered, rising on her toes to place a lingering kiss on his lips. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes.”
