Fic: "Ties of Blood and Water"
Title: “Ties of Blood and Water”
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Lestrade; OMC (Calvin Jack); OMC (Siger Holmes)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Spoilers: for "Reichenbach"
Word Count: c. 4,200
Warnings: Mentions of past child abuse; Language; Mild Violence
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: For the second time in two years, Lestrade arrives at Baker Street to find that an unwelcome visitor has called upon Sherlock. This time, however, Lestrade is ready for Siger Holmes.
Notes: Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse. The master list can be found here. Title comes from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. This directly follows "Burdens of the Father" and "You'll Love Tomorrow," though technically only "Burdens..." needs to be read first.
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There was a skull boiling on the stove.
To be more accurate, a human head was boiling in a large pot on the stove. It had yet to lose most of its flesh, and as John peered into the bubbling water he saw great chunks of skin rippling at him. What remained of the man’s lips were pulled into a half-smile, half-grimace.
John took two steps back, sucked in a deep breath through his nose, and bellowed, “Sherlock!”
From his room behind the kitchen, Calvin woke from his nap with a tremendous wail. Sherlock shot John a glare as he breezed into the room.
“Really, John,” he said disdainfully as he disappeared into Calvin’s room. A moment later, he returned with the howling two-year-old and finished, “Was that really necessary?”
“You - there’s - I was going to use that, you know!” John stammered in fury while Sherlock cradled Calvin against his chest, trying to soothe him. “Lestrade’s going to be here any moment, I should have started dinner half an hour ago, and we’ve run out of salt and vegetables because you just had to use them for that stupid experiment this afternoon -”
There was a quick rap on the door frame and John spun on the spot, startled.
“Bad time?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow at the two of them.
“Ah, good, Lestrade,” Sherlock said briskly. “John will need to leave the flat for a bit, or you may be arresting him for homicide. Take him to the shops, would you?”
He handed Calvin to his godfather and left the room as abruptly as he’d entered. John stood there for a moment, seething, while Lestrade brushed a thumb over Calvin’s tear-stained cheeks and coaxed a smile from the boy.
“He just - there’s - where did he even get a head?” John sputtered, raking a hand through his hair.
“Oh, good, it’s an experiment. I was hoping this wasn’t you meant when you said we were having stew tonight,” Lestrade commented lightly as he peered into the pot.
He barely escaped John’s retaliatory cuff about the ear and led the way out of the flat, laughing.
----
“You should’ve seen the look on her face when she realized what had happened,” Lestrade said later, recounting a years-old case as he and John climbed the stairs to 221b, Calvin perched on his father’s hip. Lestrade led the way, carrying the bag of ingredients they had picked up at the shops. John had cooled down considerably in the interim and it looked as though their quiet night in had been salvaged - though quiet was a relative term when it came to life with Sherlock. “All those years of work, and Sherlock busted her in half a glance at her shoes - not to mention the fact that he was also high at the time, but - uh - we don’t talk about that.”
“God,” John said, shaking his head as they turned the corner and mounted the last bit of the stairwell. “He is unbelievable somet -”
But Lestrade threw out his hand, halting him. John paused, and Lestrade pressed a finger to his lips. He could have sworn that he heard -
- And there it was again: two voices coming from the flat, when Sherlock had clearly been alone not an hour ago when they’d stepped out. He could pick out Sherlock’s timbre easily enough, deep as it was, but his words were muffled. The sound kept moving, as though he was pacing the room. The second voice was male, and they talked over one another, words tumbling and running together. Lestrade motioned for John to stay put and mounted the last few steps to the door, which had been left ajar.
He still couldn’t make out the words, but the voices grew more and more agitated as he listened and Sherlock’s stopped moving. Lestrade couldn’t say why, precisely, he felt a growing sense of unease, but glancing down at John he saw that his friend’s face reflected the same look of concern and mounting dread.
And then there came a violent shout of, “Sod off, old man!” and Lestrade took an involuntary step backwards, teetering on the edge of the step, as though the words had physically landed a blow to his chest.
“Get him upstairs,” he murmured quietly to John without turning. “And stay there with him. I’ll call for you.”
“You know who that is?” John hissed.
“I have a good idea. Go. Stay out of sight.”
John hesitated, never one to back down from a fight, but Calvin took precedence. He nodded, brisk, and took the stairs two at a time up to his and Sherlock’s room.
Lestrade paused on the landing, alone, considering calling Sherlock’s mobile just to see if he was in a position where he could pick it up. But then he heard the room’s other occupant bellow, “You miserable wretch of a - !” and he was inside 221b before he’d realized that his feet had made the decision for him.
“Siger,” he said sharply, letting the door slam in his wake, and the Holmes patriarch whirled from where he had Sherlock crowded up against the fireplace. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t even fight your own battles now, boy, can you?” Siger sneered, looking back at his son. Sherlock lifted his chin but said nothing.
“Get out,” Lestrade growled. “Now.”
“Not until I’ve seen my grandson.” Siger’s lip curled as he looked at Lestrade. “I want to see how my hard-earned money is being wasted this time. It was the drugs first, with this one, and then your cute little puzzles, calling him out to solve the occasional murder because you’re too thick to manage it yourself. For years he languished, living off the money I worked my fingers raw to make in the first place. And now he has a kept boy, and a child?”
“I haven’t been financially dependent on you in years,” Sherlock said softly, eyes flashing.
Siger turned back to look at Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved. “Perhaps not, but you were once and I’d say you owe me from all that time I spent watching you squander the money I was good enough to give to you. So is this one of your experiments, boy? There are cheaper ways to find yourself a whore, you know.”
A muscle leaped in Sherlock’s jaw. “I suppose you would know, wouldn’t you, Father? I always thought the nanny’s son looked remarkably like you, right down to that ample waistline you can’t -"
Crack.
For a man three times Sherlock’s size, Siger moved with remarkable alacrity. He had crossed the distance between himself and Sherlock before Lestrade could react and backhanded his son. The skin broke immediately where his ring came into contact with Sherlock’s face, and an angry red line formed from his temple to his jaw. It immediately began to leak blood.
Sherlock, caught off-guard, stumbled with the force of the blow and had to grab the mantel to keep from toppling over while Lestrade seized Siger with a strength he had no idea he still possessed and hauled him away, tossing him up against a nearby wall and laying an arm across his neck.
“I’m so glad I got to witness that,” he growled as fury burned, hot and white, behind his eyes, almost blinding in its intensity. Siger grunted, eyes popping as Lestrade leaned on his neck. “You just gave me ample reason to lock you in -”
“No!” Sherlock broke in; Lestrade didn’t take his eyes off Siger. “No, Lestrade, don’t.”
“Sherlock -”
“No, really, you mustn't,” Sherlock insisted, almost pleading. “Just - let him go.”
Lestrade looked around and saw that Sherlock had a hand pressed to his face; blood seeped between his fingers. His eyes were wide, and he looked desperate. Lestrade gaped at him.
“You’re insane.”
“Oh, he is that,” Siger put in, and Lestrade broke his fist across the man’s face.
“God, I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” Lestrade hissed as Siger’s head snapped to the side and blood started to leak from his nose. “Been imaging doing a lot worse to you, in fact, and now’s as good a time as any to start trying them out. Unless, of course, you shut up. And if you think for an instant that I’m going to let you go -”
“You have to,” Sherlock cut in, and he sounded resigned. “Look - Mycroft’s people will be here any moment; he undoubtedly saw this happen on the surveillance cameras. They’ll take care of him. Please, you’ll only make it worse for yourself if you do anything further.”
Lestrade wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Sherlock use the word please before; at least, not in his presence. He stepped back, releasing Siger abruptly, and balled his hands into fists to keep himself from snatching the man by the lapels and ramming him against the wall once again for good measure.
Siger smoothed down the front of his shirt and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the blood dribbling from his nose; Lestrade was sorry to see he hadn’t managed to break it.
“Your superiors will be hearing about this, Inspector,” he said softly. “You’ll be lucky, when I’m done with you, to even have a job.”
“I’ll take the risk,” Lestrade snapped, because he’d lost the job once due to Sherlock. And while his reinstatement upon Sherlock’s return had been a pleasant surprise, Lestrade found that having Sherlock alive and whole meant more than any apology offered by his superiors. The job was his life, yes, but he wasn’t dependent on it now as he had been in the past.
“And you, boy,” Siger continued, rounding on Sherlock, who flinched even though Siger hadn’t advanced toward him. “What gives you the right to comment on my personal affairs when it was your own mother who went and got herself pregnant by our gardener? I took you into my home anyway, raised you as my own, kept your mother’s reputation intact -”
“I rather think it was your reputation you were protecting,” Sherlock said tightly, white around the lips and trembling. Lestrade sprang between him and the eldest Holmes when Siger shifted, his face purpling with anger. He made a move toward Sherlock, but when Lestrade didn’t step out of the way, he appeared to think better of it. Stalled in his tracks by a man half his size, Lestrade realized smugly.
“Be that as it may,” Siger said tightly to Sherlock over Lestrade’s shoulder, “I rather think I’d earned the right to a few...recreational activities, having to put up with a child who wasn’t my own all those years. You have no right to look down on me, boy.”
“Enough,” Lestrade said finally. “Get out. Now.”
“Inspector, I would stop using that tone on me -”
“I’d stop using that one on me,” Lestrade cut in. “Take what you want, Siger. Surely you aren’t so thick that you think I value my job over your son?”
And something in Siger’s face shifted; Lestrade knew he had caught the man by surprise.
“All the threats you can actually exercise on me are useless,” Lestrade hissed. “You can take away my job and my reputation, if you like. It’s happened before on account of Sherlock. I'm still here. So get out, now, because I have no qualms about hauling you out of this flat myself and throwing you on the street, though I’d rather not touch you again unless I have to.”
Siger drew himself up, eyes narrowing at Lestrade.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to assume, Inspector,” he said finally, “that there is nothing I can do to you.”
His eyes swept over both of them, and it was impossible to tell who was the intended recipient of his next words.
“We’ll be in touch. Good day.”
And when Lestrade looked around, he saw that two men were standing in the doorway to the flat, both of them impassive and dressed in sharp, dark suits. One of them nodded to Siger and said, “Mr. Holmes.” Neither of them looked at Sherlock or Lestrade.
“If you’ll come with us, sir,” the other man said, almost gently, and together they escorted Holmes out of the flat.
“What the fuck,” Lestrade said to the silence that followed Siger’s retreat, “was that about? Where are they taking him?”
“Home, I expect,” Sherlock said softly. “Same as they always do.”
“This - this has happened before?” Lestrade asked. “Wait - are those Mycroft’s men?”
“Yes.” Sherlock pulled his hand away from his face to look at the blood; Lestrade let out an involuntary hiss at the sight of the injury.
“Christ,” he murmured, touching Sherlock’s jaw with light fingertips as he inspected the wound. “That’s gonna need stitches, sunshine.”
He strode over to the stairs and called for John to bring down his medical bag - and to warn him, for Calvin’s sake, that Sherlock was bleeding visibly. Sherlock, for his part, turned toward the window as John came back downstairs, and Lestrade relieved him of Calvin.
“What happened?” John asked Sherlock tightly as soon as he handed over their son. “Here, sit down.”
He pulled over a chair and steered Sherlock forcibly into it. Sherlock sat down hard, looking dazed. Lestrade bounced Calvin, who was remarkably calm, making sure he was facing the kitchen and away from his bleeding father. He was unwilling to leave the room quite yet; unwilling to leave Sherlock.
“It was -” Lestrade stopped himself abruptly, because it wasn’t his place to say.
“It was my father,” Sherlock supplied.
“He - your father was here, and he hit you?” John'a voice was a low hiss.
“We had a disagreement. It’s nothing.”
“I don’t think that’s the right word for it.” John began to carefully clean the wound. “Didn’t even know your dad was alive, and now I find he’s - never mind, we’ll talk about it later. Look, I’m going to need to stitch this. I’m sorry, Sherlock. No A&E?”
Sherlock shook his head, and John nodded. “Fine. Lestrade, would you mind grabbing him a drink?”
Lestrade handed Sherlock a bottle of the strongest alcohol he could find in the barely-stocked liquor cabinet, and John cleaned the appropriate equipment while Sherlock took three deep swigs of the burning liquid.
“C’mon, Cal,” Lestrade said as John prepared to do the stitching. Sherlock had gone pale at the sight of the needle, and his jaw had tightened - he’d always been apprehensive around needles that weren’t in his control, and Lestrade wished he could offer a modicum of comfort. It seemed cruel that, after all Sherlock had faced today, he still had to go through this as well. But Calvin, as always, came first. “Let’s go play with your trains. How does that sound?”
“Hungry,” the two-year-old said instead. He kept trying to twist around to see what his parents were up to, and Lestrade had to do some maneuvering to keep them out of sight.
“Ah, right, we never did get your dinner, did we?” Lestrade murmured to himself.
“There’s some leftover macaroni in the fridge,” John said calmly, pushing the needle through Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock had squeezed his eyes shut, but otherwise gave no sign that he felt it. “I know it’s not what we had in mind for tonight, but let’s get him fed first.”
“Agreed,” Lestrade said, and was able to distract Cal long enough to get him into the kitchen without noticing Sherlock’s injury.
Half an hour later, Calvin had been fed with relatively little fuss and Sherlock had been patched up to the best of John’s ability. He went to shower while John cleaned his equipment and Lestrade kept Calvin entertained with the train set he had received on his first birthday.
“Don’t suppose you could tell me what that was about,” John said stiffly from the sink. Lestrade sat on the floor, back against the fridge, watching as Calvin crawled through the sprawling track they had laid down from his bedroom to the kitchen.
“Honestly, you know as much as I do,” Lestrade admitted. “He struck Sherlock - no idea what they were arguing about before we came home - and then he was escorted away by Mycroft’s men. I dunno why they were protecting him, nor why he was here in the first place.”
“Great,” John murmured. “More secrets.”
Sherlock padded barefoot into the kitchen a few minutes later, dressed in pajamas and his blue dressing gown. The right side of his face was pink and raw, the area around the stitches still swollen and beginning to bruise. John turned around, glanced at him, and said softly, “We’re gonna need to get some ice on that soon.”
“In a moment,” Sherlock said. Cal toddled over to him, attaching himself to Sherlock’s leg in an effort to remain upright. Sherlock stooped and picked him up. Father and son regarded one another solemnly for a moment, Calvin with half his fist in his mouth and Sherlock with a curious expression on his face - part wonder, Lestrade hazarded, and part disbelief.
And then Calvin sneezed loudly in his face.
John broke first, sinking against the counter and giggling maniacally. Lestrade soon followed, his resolve broken by John’s laughter. Sherlock scowled at his husband, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Calvin squealed and clapped his hands together, evidently quite proud of himself.
“Right, I think I'll be on my way,” Lestrade chuckled as he got to his feet. He snagged a cloth off the counter and handed it to Sherlock, who wiped his face in distaste.
John shut off the water in the sink and turned around, drying his hands on a towel. He was instantly sobered by the mention of their aborted evening, and all the implications that came along with that. “Sorry about dinner. We’ll have to try again sometime - this weekend, if you’re free.”
Sherlock led Lestrade to the door and followed him out onto the landing.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned.
“Who said anything about that?” Lestrade asked, squeezing Calvin’s tiny foot. The boy giggled.
“I know you, Lestrade,” Sherlock said gravely. “You’re an idiot, and that look in your face says that you’re about to be particularly moronic. Let this one go. He can’t help himself.”
Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up at the same moment that his stomach plummeted. “Excuse me?”
Sherlock sighed impatiently. “It can’t be helped. I’m not biologically related to him; his behavior is understandable, if a bit distasteful.”
And Lestrade was forcibly reminded then of a discussion they had had a few years before - back when Calvin was no more than a tantalizing idea in his parents’ minds.
“Male chimpanzees,” Sherlock said one night, “will murder offspring that aren’t related to them.”
“Is that so?” Lestrade said, only half-paying attention.
“The child wouldn’t be mine, biologically.”
“Well, no,” Lestrade smirked, amused. “That’s highly unlikely.”
And then he connected the two threads of conversation, and his heart sank.
“Sherlock, you’re not going to harm your own child just because he isn’t biologically related to you.”
Sherlock hummed around the cigarette in his mouth and said nothing in return.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade hissed as he finally realized - years too late - the meaning behind Sherlock’s cryptic words, “that man’s behavior is inexcusable. Downright appalling. You know perfectly well that biological relationships have no determination on emotional ones. Don’t try to explain him away like that - it’s disgusting.”
“Be that as it may, Lestrade -” Sherlock began, but Lestrade turned to go, too angry to participate further in the conversation. A hand shot out and snatched his wrist; when Lestrade looked back, his gaze met wide and desperate eyes. “Lestrade, he will ruin you. That was - I can’t stop it -”
“He won’t. He was bluffing; man knows he was in the wrong," Lestrade said firmly. And then, more gently and with a pointed look at Sherlock's face: "He left a mark this time.”
“But -” Sherlock tried, but Lestrade cut him off again.
“Don’t, Sherlock. It wasn’t your fault; I was the one who struck him.” Lestrade tugged his arm gently from Sherlock’s grip, but made no further move to leave. “I’ve a feeling nothing will come of it, but on the off-chance that it does, I’ll still come out the winner. So don’t concern yourself with this.”
“I fail to see how you would benefit from that outcome,” Sherlock said, frowning.
Lestrade squeezed his shoulder. “He has his reputation and influence; I have his son. Somehow, I think I got the better end of that deal.”
“Fine. Believe what you want,” Sherlock said in frustration. “But don’t go after him. It’s - there’s no telling what he could do to you. Even I am not fully aware of the extent of his influence, but it must be considerable for the lengths that Mycroft goes for him. So don't do anything stupid.”
Lestrade bit his bottom lip, considering carefully his next words. “I don’t know that I can make that promise, Sherlock. Because it’s not just you involved here; there’s John to consider, and Calvin. Why’s your father so fixated on him?”
Sherlock was silent a long moment. He turned his face away from Lestrade and rested his chin against Calvin’s forehead, his gaze falling blankly on the wall.
“My mother,” he said at length, “opened a trust fund for Calvin on the day of his birth, and my - and Siger always has been possessive of what he believes belongs to him.”
“Like any money your mother might have received from him in a divorce,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock nodded. But then another thought occurred to him, and he breathed, “Or - or his name. God - this all started around the time you finally gave Calvin your name, didn’t it?”
Sherlock’s silence was answer enough, and Lestrade couldn’t understand why he hadn’t pieced the two seemingly unrelated events together sooner. John and Sherlock had fought long and hard in the months prior to their son’s birth about what names he would carry, with Sherlock downright refusing to allow his surname to go on Calvin’s birth certificate. John had acquiesced the day Calvin was born, but only because he didn’t want to sully Calvin’s birth with such a bitter and worn-out argument. For months afterwards Calvin had borne the name Watson, up until the previous autumn when Sherlock finally gave in and allowed Holmes to be added to the official records.
“But only as a second name,” he had clarified for Lestrade at the time. “Not a hyphenated one. He will still be Calvin Watson, and only Calvin Holmes Watson if he so chooses.”
“Don’t pursue this,” Sherlock was saying when Lestrade came back to himself. “Promise me this, Lestrade.”
Lestrade passed a hand over his mouth. “All right, I’ll make you a deal. I won’t, if you promise me that you’ll tell me if he ever shows up here again, or contacts you in any way. I want to know, Sherlock. Just so I’m aware. All right?”
Sherlock gave a tight nod. “All right.”
“But if he threatens you,” Lestrade added as he turned to go, “the deal’s off, and I’m going after him.”
He was stopped for the second time that night by a hand around his wrist, and when he turned around he saw that Sherlock’s composure was beginning to crack under the strain of the evening.
“You can’t,” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Not even then, Lestrade. Pl -”
Sherlock broke off and glanced away; Lestrade’s heart sputtered as he realized that a thin line of red was beginning to rim his eyes.
“Don’t make me beg,” Sherlock said hoarsely, “because I’d do it. I’d despise every second of it, but if that was what it took...we need you, Lestrade. Greg. Don’t -”
“Hey,” Lestrade said softly, reaching out to hold him by the elbow. Calvin remained silent, watching the tense exchange. “All right, if it means that much to you. I’ll...I’ll stay out of it.”
“Promise me, Lestrade,” Sherlock said fiercely.
“I am,” Lestrade said earnestly, and it’d been years since such a blatant lie crossed his lips. But Sherlock accepted it, his normal observational skills dulled by the evening’s events, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Go get some rest; I’ll call you later this week to check on things.”
“I didn’t know he was my father,” Sherlock said suddenly.
“The gardener?”
Sherlock nodded. “Mother never said; Father wouldn’t say. I always wondered, though I wasn’t stupid enough to ask. I always imagined he -” But Sherlock broke off, shaking his head. “He was kind to me, the gardener. Died when I was sixteen. He’d been right under my nose the entire time...”
“You couldn’t have known, sunshine. I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock nodded, appearing as though further speech was beyond him for the evening, and disappeared back into the flat as soon as Lestrade had kissed Calvin goodbye.
Lestrade stood on the darkened landing for a moment longer, listening to the murmurs of the small family from behind the closed door. John’s voice, bright, and Calvin’s answering squeal. Sherlock’s voice was absent, but Lestrade could picture him standing there, keeping watch over the other two.
And Lestrade wasn’t about to let Sherlock keep him from keeping watch over all three of them - even if it meant going behind Sherlock’s back.
On his life, they would be safe.
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Next Story: "But You Didn't Need Me"
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