Fic: What Goes Unsaid (1/2)
Title: “What Goes Unsaid” (1/2)
Authors:
canonisrelative and
impishtubist
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Lestrade; OC (Calvin Jack)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We own nothing
Spoilers: None
Word Count: c. 8,600 total
Warnings: Adoption issues; Asexuality Issues; Language; Mentions of OC Character Death
Beta: shaindyl
Summary: As Sherlock and John field some difficult questions from their young son, they find that sometimes the most important words are the ones that go unvoiced.
Notes: Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse. The master list can be found here.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. He was standing on the sofa, pinning papers from his latest case to the wall - a private client, this time. Lestrade hadn’t needed his services in months, which was irksome, but this case at least proved promising. And distracting.
Cal stood behind him, in the middle of the living room, clutching the stuffed bear Lestrade had given him the day of his birth.
“Where do babies come from?” he asked.
“We’ve had this discussion, Calvin,” Sherlock said, turning back to his work. “I know you remember. They come from a woman’s uterus - er -” he grasped for the words that John would use, banal and imprecise though they were, “ - they come from a mother’s stomach. Tummy.”
“But,” and he heard Calvin shift, hesitating, “I don’t have a mother.”
“And we have been over this as well,” Sherlock said, with more patience than he would generally allow. He disliked repeating himself, but found that with Calvin, it was...tolerable. Not always unwelcome. “Remember what we said about the process of adoption?”
“Yeah,” Calvin mumbled, but clearly this was not satisfactory, for Sherlock heard him shuffle his feet and not leave the room. He knew another question was forthcoming, and mentally scrolled through all the potential ones Cal might still ask him about the situation.
“Why didn’t my mum want me?”
Oh. That wasn’t one he had been expecting. Even though he was only five, Cal still had the ability to surprise him. Fascinating.
Sherlock set aside his files and stepped off the sofa, crossing the room to kneel in front of his tiny son. He cast around, but John’s voice was oddly silent on this matter. He had no idea what his husband would say. They hadn’t anticipated this question which, admittedly, was an unforgivable oversight.
Perhaps this was a situation which called for the truth.
“She was unable to care for you,” he said, “and your papa and I were, at the time, discussing having a child. It was a fortunate situation.”
“But she doesn’t want to see me,” Cal said.
“She -” But Sherlock stopped, at a loss for words - yet another rare experience. He could hear John already in the back of his head - Don’t you dare tell him that! - but Cal’s question left him very little room for maneuvering. He couldn’t lie, because then he would want to see his mother. But he knew enough to know that the truth would hurt his son - but wouldn’t that be kinder, rather than building his hopes up?
“No,” he said at last. “No, she doesn’t want to see you. I’m sorry.”
He added the last bit as Cal’s face began to crumble, thinking that it was something John would probably say. And then he opened his arms, for no other reason than because he wanted to (which was interesting), and allowed Cal to fall into them and bury his face in his shoulder. The boy didn’t cry, not loudly, but he sniffled quite a bit and Sherlock felt his shoulder grow damp with the child’s tears.
“Your papa and I want you,” he said, grasping at straws.
“It’s not the same,” Calvin muttered into the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock could think of no adequate response, but he held onto Calvin even long after the tears had stopped.
----
“You’re angry,” Sherlock said later that evening, having disclosed to John his earlier conversation with Calvin. The boy had been despondent for the rest of the afternoon, and grown teary again as John went to put him to bed. But he couldn’t properly articulate what it was that had him distressed, and eventually the exhaustion from his despair carried him off to sleep, leaving John perplexed and wary.
“No,” John said. “At least - not at you. I don’t think I would’ve known what to say either, to be honest. I’m angry that - well, angry that there aren’t any words to make this better for him, because she didn’t want him. She doesn’t want to see him. How do you cover that up? She didn’t want a child; end of story. But how do you tell a five-year-old his own mother wanted nothing to do with him?”
“I don’t understand his fascination with this woman he’s never met,” Sherlock admitted. “She has provided nothing for him, and never bothered to contact him or see him. So why cry over someone you’ve never met?”
“I guess it’s just the idea of it - the idea of a parent not wanting their child. He sees all of his classmates with mothers, and the fact that his is still out there, but with no desire to see him - that hurts. What did he do wrong? That’s...just the natural thought process, I suppose.”
“It’s absurd.”
“Sherlock,” John said gently, “don’t dismiss his feelings so readily. That’s not what he needs from us right now.”
“He has us. And Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a moment of contemplation. “Is that not enough?”
“I don’t think that’s quite the point.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair. “God, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. How could we not have seen this coming?”
“Will he be all right?” Sherlock asked.
“I’m sure he will be,” John muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not the first child to ever have to go through this. I just - I just don’t know how to get him there. How do we make this right for him, Sherlock?”
Sherlock had no answer.
----
For the first time in memory, Lestrade heard Sherlock’s familiar tread up the stairs to his floor, his quick gait down the corridor to the door of his flat - and then the sound of a brisk knock on his door. Usually Sherlock was able to sneak into the flat before Lestrade ever even heard him coming, and not once had he ever knocked. Lestrade paused on his way into the kitchen, waiting for Sherlock to merely pick the locks and let himself in. But then there was another sharp rap on the door, and Lestrade opened it to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock.
“Not going to pick my locks this time?”
Sherlock huffed and pushed past him into the flat. “I believe the proper protocol is to invite me inside and offer to take my coat.”
“Since when do you care for proper protocol?” Lestrade muttered good-naturedly. “How ‘bout we compromise and I offer you a towel instead? God, did you walk all the way from Baker Street in this rain? You’re soaked through. And - oi, shoes off! I don’t need you traipsing mud through here.”
Lestrade swore he heard a, “Yes, dad,” in the disdainful huff of breath that Sherlock let out as he paused on the welcome mat, waiting for Lestrade to track down a towel.
“Here,” he said, tossing a towel at Sherlock’s head. The detective caught it, and began drying his face and hair. “Now, what’s on your mind? Must be pretty bad for you to not even bother to try a bit of breaking and entering.”
“Calvin’s been asking about his mother,” Sherlock said, toeing off his shoes.
“What about her?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and Lestrade sucked in a breath.
“Oh. Wants to know why she didn’t want him, does he? Christ.”
Lestrade turned and walked into the kitchen; Sherlock followed.
“I...told him the truth. He left me very little choice in the matter,” Sherlock said, hesitantly. “She didn’t want him, Lestrade. I don’t know how I could have avoided telling him that.”
“You couldn’t have,” Lestrade said softly. He set about making a drink. “I don’t suppose I can offer you anything?”
“Tea.”
“Right.” Lestrade went in search of his seldom-used kettle, and once the water was heating said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sherlock. It would have been nice to have avoided this question for a while longer, I suppose, but it was naive for us to think he wouldn’t be asking this soon. He’s old enough to ask; he’s not necessarily old enough to understand all the nuances involved. How do you want your tea? The usual way?”
Sherlock nodded. “You’re drinking,” he commented mildly, and Lestrade tensed. He continued mixing his drink, however, and took the time to consider his words.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “That an issue?”
“Would you tell me if it was?”
No, Lestrade knew, but he nodded instead because he didn’t trust himself not to snap at Sherlock. It was no business of Sherlock’s what he drank and how much - hypocritical, really, especially with the state Sherlock had been in those early days. He was in no position to comment on another’s vice.
But that wasn’t the point, and so Lestrade steered them back to the original line of conversation.
“So, Cal wants to meet his mum.”
“He wants his mother to want him,” Sherlock said. “But you are well aware that she wants nothing to do with him. And John - we fear that there is no way to make this right for him. How can we make him understand that her feelings have no bearing on his worth as a person, and that it isn’t any fault of his that she doesn’t want him?”
“God, I don’t know, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, and then backtracked as he saw Sherlock’s face fall a fraction. “We’ll figure it out; don’t worry. I suppose - well, I suppose you just need to keep reinforcing the fact that he is very much loved. And answer all of his questions as honestly as you can - he won’t respect you for telling him lies, if he finds out as he grows older. Then again, be gentle with him. Don’t sugarcoat, but don’t be needlessly harsh. I know none of this is very concrete, and you hate that, but children are unpredictable. There’s only so much you can prepare for.”
“I’m discovering that,” Sherlock said dryly, and accepted the cup of tea that Lestrade offered him.
“Have you ever considered telling him about your father?” Lestrade asked as he returned to his own drink. Sherlock pursed his lips.
“He will not know about my father,” Sherlock said firmly.
“Sherlock...that might not be wise,” Lestrade said.
“He has no need to know about my relatives,” Sherlock snapped. “The knowledge will not be beneficial to him.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Look what good it did me,” Sherlock said harshly. Lestrade drew a deep breath through his nose.
“I only mention this,” he said finally, “because you have experience with a parent...with a parent not wanting anything to do with you.”
“Not a biological one.” Sherlock’s lip curled. “And that in itself makes no sense, Lestrade. I can understand a non-biological parent not liking a child, but a biological one is simply irrational.”
“It’s all irrational, don’t you think?”
“But it makes sense, Lestrade. I know you dislike this line of thought, but it is science. She should want him, because he is carrying on her genes. She should feel the impulse to protect that DNA at all costs, so that it may be passed on.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Sherlock,” Lestrade said harshly. “It’s a fiction you’ve built around your life to explain your father’s behaviour, and it doesn’t hold up. She doesn’t want him; she’s not a slave to her genes. None of us are. And it might help Cal to realize that you also have a parent who didn’t necessarily want you, and yet - you’re fine. He’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with either of you.”
Sherlock said nothing, but shook his head and busied himself with drinking his tea.
“Well, at least take it under advisement,” Lestrade said with a sigh.
----
Sherlock relayed his conversation with Lestrade to John, who also was faintly disapproving of Sherlock’s decision not to discuss his own father with Calvin. But he vowed to not breathe a word to the child, for which Sherlock appeared grateful. Cal, with the attention span indicative of his age group, seemingly lost interest in pursuing the topic and did not mention his mother again. John knew that he hadn’t forgotten - that wasn’t something, he felt, that a child could forget - and it might have just been his imagination but it seemed to him that Calvin’s movements were lethargic over the next few days; his enthusiasm, a bit damp.
But John soon became convinced that children possessed some form of telepathy - he would have to ask his mother about it - that allowed them to pursue the one topic of conversation that their parents wished to avoid.
“How come I’ve never met my grandpa?” Calvin asked one night as he was sitting in the living room with Sherlock.
Sherlock didn’t look up from his book. “You did, but he died when you were two. You would not remember him, but we have told you about him.”
“No, I know about that grandpa. I mean your dad.”
John was sitting in the kitchen, updating his blog, but his gaze flicked to Sherlock as soon as Calvin’s question left his lips. The boy wouldn’t be able to tell, but the question immediately had Sherlock on edge. His mouth tightened at the corners and his jaw set, determined not to show his son that the subject bothered him.
“He’s dead as well,” Sherlock said calmly. Calvin, sitting on the floor with a coloring book open before him, looked over at his father in surprise.
“No, he’s not.”
Sherlock shot him an indulgent smile from the sofa. “I believe I would know if my own father were alive, wouldn’t I?”
“But Uncle Mycroft said that he was.” Calvin frowned. John let out a hiss of breath, eyes going wide as Sherlock looked over at him in equal surprise.
John cleared his throat, trying to buy Sherlock some time to gather himself. “What - uh - what exactly did Uncle Mycroft tell you?”
Cal looked over at him, face wide with curiosity. “He said that there’s another grandpa out there who would like to meet me, only daddy likes to pretend he doesn’t exist.”
That bastard. John felt rage flare, white and hot, in his gut, and struggled to keep his face neutral. “Well, Uncle Mycroft is - he must have been referring to someone else. Are you sure he said ‘grandfather’?”
“Yeah, papa. He showed me a picture an’ everything.”
“When?” John demanded, and it came out harsher than he had intended.
“When he picked me up from school yesterday.”
John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved. He cast around for an explanation that would still be keeping with Sherlock’s wishes while at the same time satisfying Calvin’s curiosity.
“Well, bud, I’m sure that Uncle Mycroft was simply mistaken -”
“No, John,” Sherlock said finally, removing his reading glasses and pocketing them. He looked resigned, as though he had always known that this conversation was inevitable. John ached for him. “It’s all right. Calvin, come here.”
John lifted an eyebrow in surprise, wondering what it was exactly that Sherlock had in mind. But he said nothing, and watched as Calvin clambered up on the sofa beside his father.
“Do you remember our discussion about your mother?”
Calvin nodded hesitantly.
“The situation with my father is complicated,” Sherlock said finally. “It...has been easier for me to tell you that he is no longer alive. But I believe you are old enough to know - that isn’t the truth. But I have no idea where he is, and I feel that is best.”
“Uncle Mycroft could find him for you,” Cal suggested softly. Sherlock’s smile was sad.
“I have no doubt of that. But I don’t want him found. He...wasn’t a nice man. He found my existence to be something he regretted.”
"'Re- re-gret-ted'?"
“It means -” Sherlock ground to a halt, his jaw working noiselessly for several seconds. John’s stomach turned to stone as he watched Sherlock struggle to verbalize what he had always known but seldom - perhaps never - admitted out loud. "He...he didn't want me."
Something pricked behind John’s eyes at Sherlock’s raw voice, and he had to blink several times before the feeling faded. When he came back to their conversation again, Calvin’s face was screwed up in concentration and Sherlock - Sherlock looked devastated, his jaw tight and mouth pulled into a thin line, but he managed a quick smile when Calvin looked up at him again.
“Just like my mum didn’t want me.”
“The situations are similar.”
“But.” Cal chewed on his bottom lip. “Everyone at school has a grandpa. I want one, too. It looks nice.”
Sherlock opened his arm in invitation; Calvin settled against his side.
“What do you suppose,” he said finally, “the definition of ‘grandfather’ is?”
“My dad’s dad,” Calvin answered promptly. Sherlock nodded solemnly.
“And what would happen if I told you that Lest - that your Uncle Greg is the closest thing to a father I have ever known?”
Calvin blinked up at him in surprise, and then furrowed his brow. “He’s my grandpa?” He scrunched his nose, looking thoroughly displeased by the idea. “That’s weird, dad.”
Sherlock gave an uncharacteristically gentle smile and smoothed down the boy’s hair absently. “He fulfills many different roles for us, and he cares for you. Deeply.”
“Just don’t go around calling him grandpa, or it’ll be dad’s head on a platter,” John added from the kitchen, more for Sherlock’s benefit than Cal's. His husband smirked at him over Calvin’s head.
“I still want my mum,” Calvin whispered plaintively. Sherlock squeezed him against his side.
“Your mother,” he said softly, “thought it would be best if we raised you. She...wanted you to be happy, and knew she couldn’t give you what you needed. And she felt it would be best not to see you, just as my father...won’t see me.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with you,” John put in from his vantage point in the kitchen. “Just like there’s nothing wrong with dad. And we love you.”
Calvin sniffed. Sherlock wrapped him into a loose hug, burying his face in the blonde hair and adding, “Always, Cal.”
“Is this Jack?”
Sherlock blinked and looked up. “Sorry?”
John held out a photograph Calvin had handed him earlier in the day. The child had been going through Sherlock’s bookshelf, entertaining himself with the weight of the heavy tomes and the illustrations in the apiology texts. He had found the photograph in one of those books, tucked between illustrations of Apis mellifera and Apismellifera scutellata. “This. Is it Jack?”
The photograph was well-worn but not old, holding the creases and lines indicative of one that has been carried around in a wallet for some time. It had been a candid photo, the boy in it laughing and reaching for something just beyond the camera’s view. His dark locks lay tumbled across his forehead and his smile was painfully familiar; John felt his heart catch, and he hadn’t even known the child.
Oh, Greg...
Sherlock looked at John for a long moment, as though he were considering whether his answer would be worth the lie. He finally settled for asking, “Where did you find that?”
“I didn’t, actually. Cal did, in one of your books.” John ran his fingers lightly over the dated photo, realizing that that was the closest thing to a yes that he was going to get. He had assumed as much anyway, but he’d only seen a picture of Jack once and that had been before Calvin’s birth. “How old is he, here?”
“Three,” Sherlock said. “It was shortly before the diagnosis.”
“Did Greg give this to you?”
“No.” Sherlock paused to scribble something in his notebook. “He is aware that I have it, though, before you scold me that it’s improper to nick photographs of someone’s dead child.”
“I wasn’t - never mind.” John sighed. “He was a beautiful child. Looks just like his dad, actually. Except for the eyes - he get those from his mother?”
“I can’t say I spent a good amount of time looking into the eyes of Lestrade’s wife, John,” Sherlock said, the eye roll more than evident in his voice. He stepped back from the microscope, twirling a pen through restless fingers - a habit he had picked up after giving up cigarettes. He finally added, “He inherited his father’s...kindness, as well.”
John walked over to him and stood behind him, slipping his arms around the slim waist and propping his chin on the bony shoulder. Sherlock’s hands came up to cover his, and he leaned into the embrace. A moment later, John felt the photograph being pulled lightly from his grip.
“I find that...I still miss him,” Sherlock said finally. “Is that odd, John? He’s been gone for more years than I knew him.”
“No,” John whispered, heart cracking a bit. “No, that’s not odd at all, love. That’s very, very normal.”
Calvin bounded into the room moments later. The five-year-old tugged out a hard wooden chair and climbed onto it, a toy dinosaur in his hand, and regarded his parents cheerfully.
“Did you solve the mystery?” he asked, excited.
“Mystery?” John asked, lifting an eyebrow at him as he extracted himself from Sherlock.
“The boy in the picture! The one from daddy’s book.” Calvin said, pointing at the picture that Sherlock still had clutched in his hand.
John shot Sherlock a glance. Is he ready for this?
The eyes that met his were hesitant, and when Sherlock looked back down at the photograph John was forced to revise his silent question - was Sherlock ready for this?
“Actually, daddy’s...still working on it. I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon, though.” John ruffled Calvin’s hair. “Why don’t you go and wash up? Dinner’s going to be ready soon.”
Calvin hurried readily from the room, spurred on by the thought of food, and John turned to Sherlock.
“What do we tell him?”
Sherlock walked out into the living room, removed the apiology tome, and put Jack’s picture back between pages 342 and 343. His fingers drifted over the photograph for a moment before he closed the book and put it back on the shelf.
“We’ll discuss it after dinner,” he said decisively.
----
“Cal, come sit on the sofa with us,” John said, giving the boy a hand up. He settled between both his parents and looked expectantly at John. “Do you remember that picture you found this afternoon? Well, daddy actually does know who that little boy was. And we think you are old enough to know who he is, too.”
Sherlock pressed his fingers to Calvin’s wrist, grabbing the boy’s attention, and then said, “Lest - your Uncle Greg used to have a son, Calvin. Like you. And he was married, like I am to your papa. He had a family.”
“He doesn’t have a son,” Calvin said, a small line appearing between his brows.
“Not anymore,” Sherlock said.
“His son got very sick,” John added. “He had to go into the hospital, it was so bad. And he died, Calvin. He didn’t get better. Do you - do you know what that means?”
“Like Pete’s grandma,” Calvin said, still frowning. “She got old and went to sleep, and Pete said she never woke up. She couldn’t come back.”
“Yeah,” John said quietly. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“But he wasn’t old,” Calvin protested.
“Sometimes you aren’t old when you die,” Sherlock put in. “It doesn’t only happen when someone is old. It can happen at any time.”
“So...I could die?” Calvin said.
“You will die,” Sherlock pointed out, and John winced.
“No, no, Calvin, he doesn’t mean it like that,” John said hastily, shooting an alarmed look at Sherlock over Calvin’s head. Sherlock grimaced, recognizing that his words had been imprecise. “It...yes, everybody dies. Everyone...everyone will grow old someday, and eventually they will die. But that won’t happen to you for a long, long time. Many, many years from now.”
“But why?”
“Because your body’s cells are incapable of dividing an infinite number of times,” Sherlock said automatically, and at John’s look he rephrased. “Because you are not...built to live forever. No one is. Sometimes we get sick, and doctors can’t make us better. Or sometimes we grow old, and then we die naturally.”
“Do you understand?” John jumped in.
“Sorta,” Calvin said. “But what happens after?”
John winced. He knew this question would be coming, but hadn’t been sure how to address it.
“We don’t know,” he said diplomatically before Sherlock could answer. His husband closed his mouth and nodded, deferring to John’s explanation. “Perhaps nothing. It...isn’t possible to come back, at least. It’s forever.”
“So Uncle Greg will never see his son again,” Sherlock added softly. “But there are other ways we have found to keep him alive. In memories.”
He ran a finger under Calvin’s chin. “In you. You were named after Uncle Greg’s son. His name was Jack.”
“That’s my middle name,” Calvin said automatically, and Sherlock nodded.
“Yes. Your uncle gave us his name to use on you. Do you see?”
Calvin nodded. “Yeah.”
John ran a hand through Calvin’s hair. He doubted that Calvin had grasped everything they had said, but it at least opened the door for future conversations. “Well, if you have any questions, you can always ask us. Or Uncle Greg. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” John kissed the top of his head. “Right, go play. You’ve got a couple more hours until bedtime.”
Calvin scurried off.
“You all right?” John asked Sherlock softly. His husband was abnormally still, staring after Calvin.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said truthfully. “It...doesn’t feel as though he understands.”
“He will, someday. It’s a start. He’s only five - he can’t be expected to grasp everything yet.” John scooted closer to Sherlock on the sofa.
Sherlock’s face turned grave. “Have we done the right thing by telling him?”
“Yeah,” John said, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Sherlock’s chin. “You should probably give Greg a head’s up, though. Let him know that we’ve spoken to Calvin, and he may be getting questions. Just so he’s prepared.”
He felt Sherlock open his mouth to reply, but then an excited shout of, “Dad!” cut through the peace of the kitchen.
“Go on,” John said, laughing quietly. “This can wait.”
Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s forehead, and John felt the curve of his smile before he broke away and went to see to their son.
-----
Part Two
-----------
Previous Story: "The Little Things"
Next Story: "How Like a Winter"
-----------
Authors:
canonisrelative and
impishtubist
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Lestrade; OC (Calvin Jack)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We own nothing
Spoilers: None
Word Count: c. 8,600 total
Warnings: Adoption issues; Asexuality Issues; Language; Mentions of OC Character Death
Beta: shaindyl
Summary: As Sherlock and John field some difficult questions from their young son, they find that sometimes the most important words are the ones that go unvoiced.
Notes: Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse. The master list can be found here.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. He was standing on the sofa, pinning papers from his latest case to the wall - a private client, this time. Lestrade hadn’t needed his services in months, which was irksome, but this case at least proved promising. And distracting.
Cal stood behind him, in the middle of the living room, clutching the stuffed bear Lestrade had given him the day of his birth.
“Where do babies come from?” he asked.
“We’ve had this discussion, Calvin,” Sherlock said, turning back to his work. “I know you remember. They come from a woman’s uterus - er -” he grasped for the words that John would use, banal and imprecise though they were, “ - they come from a mother’s stomach. Tummy.”
“But,” and he heard Calvin shift, hesitating, “I don’t have a mother.”
“And we have been over this as well,” Sherlock said, with more patience than he would generally allow. He disliked repeating himself, but found that with Calvin, it was...tolerable. Not always unwelcome. “Remember what we said about the process of adoption?”
“Yeah,” Calvin mumbled, but clearly this was not satisfactory, for Sherlock heard him shuffle his feet and not leave the room. He knew another question was forthcoming, and mentally scrolled through all the potential ones Cal might still ask him about the situation.
“Why didn’t my mum want me?”
Oh. That wasn’t one he had been expecting. Even though he was only five, Cal still had the ability to surprise him. Fascinating.
Sherlock set aside his files and stepped off the sofa, crossing the room to kneel in front of his tiny son. He cast around, but John’s voice was oddly silent on this matter. He had no idea what his husband would say. They hadn’t anticipated this question which, admittedly, was an unforgivable oversight.
Perhaps this was a situation which called for the truth.
“She was unable to care for you,” he said, “and your papa and I were, at the time, discussing having a child. It was a fortunate situation.”
“But she doesn’t want to see me,” Cal said.
“She -” But Sherlock stopped, at a loss for words - yet another rare experience. He could hear John already in the back of his head - Don’t you dare tell him that! - but Cal’s question left him very little room for maneuvering. He couldn’t lie, because then he would want to see his mother. But he knew enough to know that the truth would hurt his son - but wouldn’t that be kinder, rather than building his hopes up?
“No,” he said at last. “No, she doesn’t want to see you. I’m sorry.”
He added the last bit as Cal’s face began to crumble, thinking that it was something John would probably say. And then he opened his arms, for no other reason than because he wanted to (which was interesting), and allowed Cal to fall into them and bury his face in his shoulder. The boy didn’t cry, not loudly, but he sniffled quite a bit and Sherlock felt his shoulder grow damp with the child’s tears.
“Your papa and I want you,” he said, grasping at straws.
“It’s not the same,” Calvin muttered into the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock could think of no adequate response, but he held onto Calvin even long after the tears had stopped.
----
“You’re angry,” Sherlock said later that evening, having disclosed to John his earlier conversation with Calvin. The boy had been despondent for the rest of the afternoon, and grown teary again as John went to put him to bed. But he couldn’t properly articulate what it was that had him distressed, and eventually the exhaustion from his despair carried him off to sleep, leaving John perplexed and wary.
“No,” John said. “At least - not at you. I don’t think I would’ve known what to say either, to be honest. I’m angry that - well, angry that there aren’t any words to make this better for him, because she didn’t want him. She doesn’t want to see him. How do you cover that up? She didn’t want a child; end of story. But how do you tell a five-year-old his own mother wanted nothing to do with him?”
“I don’t understand his fascination with this woman he’s never met,” Sherlock admitted. “She has provided nothing for him, and never bothered to contact him or see him. So why cry over someone you’ve never met?”
“I guess it’s just the idea of it - the idea of a parent not wanting their child. He sees all of his classmates with mothers, and the fact that his is still out there, but with no desire to see him - that hurts. What did he do wrong? That’s...just the natural thought process, I suppose.”
“It’s absurd.”
“Sherlock,” John said gently, “don’t dismiss his feelings so readily. That’s not what he needs from us right now.”
“He has us. And Lestrade,” Sherlock said after a moment of contemplation. “Is that not enough?”
“I don’t think that’s quite the point.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair. “God, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. How could we not have seen this coming?”
“Will he be all right?” Sherlock asked.
“I’m sure he will be,” John muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not the first child to ever have to go through this. I just - I just don’t know how to get him there. How do we make this right for him, Sherlock?”
Sherlock had no answer.
----
For the first time in memory, Lestrade heard Sherlock’s familiar tread up the stairs to his floor, his quick gait down the corridor to the door of his flat - and then the sound of a brisk knock on his door. Usually Sherlock was able to sneak into the flat before Lestrade ever even heard him coming, and not once had he ever knocked. Lestrade paused on his way into the kitchen, waiting for Sherlock to merely pick the locks and let himself in. But then there was another sharp rap on the door, and Lestrade opened it to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock.
“Not going to pick my locks this time?”
Sherlock huffed and pushed past him into the flat. “I believe the proper protocol is to invite me inside and offer to take my coat.”
“Since when do you care for proper protocol?” Lestrade muttered good-naturedly. “How ‘bout we compromise and I offer you a towel instead? God, did you walk all the way from Baker Street in this rain? You’re soaked through. And - oi, shoes off! I don’t need you traipsing mud through here.”
Lestrade swore he heard a, “Yes, dad,” in the disdainful huff of breath that Sherlock let out as he paused on the welcome mat, waiting for Lestrade to track down a towel.
“Here,” he said, tossing a towel at Sherlock’s head. The detective caught it, and began drying his face and hair. “Now, what’s on your mind? Must be pretty bad for you to not even bother to try a bit of breaking and entering.”
“Calvin’s been asking about his mother,” Sherlock said, toeing off his shoes.
“What about her?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and Lestrade sucked in a breath.
“Oh. Wants to know why she didn’t want him, does he? Christ.”
Lestrade turned and walked into the kitchen; Sherlock followed.
“I...told him the truth. He left me very little choice in the matter,” Sherlock said, hesitantly. “She didn’t want him, Lestrade. I don’t know how I could have avoided telling him that.”
“You couldn’t have,” Lestrade said softly. He set about making a drink. “I don’t suppose I can offer you anything?”
“Tea.”
“Right.” Lestrade went in search of his seldom-used kettle, and once the water was heating said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sherlock. It would have been nice to have avoided this question for a while longer, I suppose, but it was naive for us to think he wouldn’t be asking this soon. He’s old enough to ask; he’s not necessarily old enough to understand all the nuances involved. How do you want your tea? The usual way?”
Sherlock nodded. “You’re drinking,” he commented mildly, and Lestrade tensed. He continued mixing his drink, however, and took the time to consider his words.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “That an issue?”
“Would you tell me if it was?”
No, Lestrade knew, but he nodded instead because he didn’t trust himself not to snap at Sherlock. It was no business of Sherlock’s what he drank and how much - hypocritical, really, especially with the state Sherlock had been in those early days. He was in no position to comment on another’s vice.
But that wasn’t the point, and so Lestrade steered them back to the original line of conversation.
“So, Cal wants to meet his mum.”
“He wants his mother to want him,” Sherlock said. “But you are well aware that she wants nothing to do with him. And John - we fear that there is no way to make this right for him. How can we make him understand that her feelings have no bearing on his worth as a person, and that it isn’t any fault of his that she doesn’t want him?”
“God, I don’t know, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed, and then backtracked as he saw Sherlock’s face fall a fraction. “We’ll figure it out; don’t worry. I suppose - well, I suppose you just need to keep reinforcing the fact that he is very much loved. And answer all of his questions as honestly as you can - he won’t respect you for telling him lies, if he finds out as he grows older. Then again, be gentle with him. Don’t sugarcoat, but don’t be needlessly harsh. I know none of this is very concrete, and you hate that, but children are unpredictable. There’s only so much you can prepare for.”
“I’m discovering that,” Sherlock said dryly, and accepted the cup of tea that Lestrade offered him.
“Have you ever considered telling him about your father?” Lestrade asked as he returned to his own drink. Sherlock pursed his lips.
“He will not know about my father,” Sherlock said firmly.
“Sherlock...that might not be wise,” Lestrade said.
“He has no need to know about my relatives,” Sherlock snapped. “The knowledge will not be beneficial to him.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Look what good it did me,” Sherlock said harshly. Lestrade drew a deep breath through his nose.
“I only mention this,” he said finally, “because you have experience with a parent...with a parent not wanting anything to do with you.”
“Not a biological one.” Sherlock’s lip curled. “And that in itself makes no sense, Lestrade. I can understand a non-biological parent not liking a child, but a biological one is simply irrational.”
“It’s all irrational, don’t you think?”
“But it makes sense, Lestrade. I know you dislike this line of thought, but it is science. She should want him, because he is carrying on her genes. She should feel the impulse to protect that DNA at all costs, so that it may be passed on.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Sherlock,” Lestrade said harshly. “It’s a fiction you’ve built around your life to explain your father’s behaviour, and it doesn’t hold up. She doesn’t want him; she’s not a slave to her genes. None of us are. And it might help Cal to realize that you also have a parent who didn’t necessarily want you, and yet - you’re fine. He’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with either of you.”
Sherlock said nothing, but shook his head and busied himself with drinking his tea.
“Well, at least take it under advisement,” Lestrade said with a sigh.
----
Sherlock relayed his conversation with Lestrade to John, who also was faintly disapproving of Sherlock’s decision not to discuss his own father with Calvin. But he vowed to not breathe a word to the child, for which Sherlock appeared grateful. Cal, with the attention span indicative of his age group, seemingly lost interest in pursuing the topic and did not mention his mother again. John knew that he hadn’t forgotten - that wasn’t something, he felt, that a child could forget - and it might have just been his imagination but it seemed to him that Calvin’s movements were lethargic over the next few days; his enthusiasm, a bit damp.
But John soon became convinced that children possessed some form of telepathy - he would have to ask his mother about it - that allowed them to pursue the one topic of conversation that their parents wished to avoid.
“How come I’ve never met my grandpa?” Calvin asked one night as he was sitting in the living room with Sherlock.
Sherlock didn’t look up from his book. “You did, but he died when you were two. You would not remember him, but we have told you about him.”
“No, I know about that grandpa. I mean your dad.”
John was sitting in the kitchen, updating his blog, but his gaze flicked to Sherlock as soon as Calvin’s question left his lips. The boy wouldn’t be able to tell, but the question immediately had Sherlock on edge. His mouth tightened at the corners and his jaw set, determined not to show his son that the subject bothered him.
“He’s dead as well,” Sherlock said calmly. Calvin, sitting on the floor with a coloring book open before him, looked over at his father in surprise.
“No, he’s not.”
Sherlock shot him an indulgent smile from the sofa. “I believe I would know if my own father were alive, wouldn’t I?”
“But Uncle Mycroft said that he was.” Calvin frowned. John let out a hiss of breath, eyes going wide as Sherlock looked over at him in equal surprise.
John cleared his throat, trying to buy Sherlock some time to gather himself. “What - uh - what exactly did Uncle Mycroft tell you?”
Cal looked over at him, face wide with curiosity. “He said that there’s another grandpa out there who would like to meet me, only daddy likes to pretend he doesn’t exist.”
That bastard. John felt rage flare, white and hot, in his gut, and struggled to keep his face neutral. “Well, Uncle Mycroft is - he must have been referring to someone else. Are you sure he said ‘grandfather’?”
“Yeah, papa. He showed me a picture an’ everything.”
“When?” John demanded, and it came out harsher than he had intended.
“When he picked me up from school yesterday.”
John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved. He cast around for an explanation that would still be keeping with Sherlock’s wishes while at the same time satisfying Calvin’s curiosity.
“Well, bud, I’m sure that Uncle Mycroft was simply mistaken -”
“No, John,” Sherlock said finally, removing his reading glasses and pocketing them. He looked resigned, as though he had always known that this conversation was inevitable. John ached for him. “It’s all right. Calvin, come here.”
John lifted an eyebrow in surprise, wondering what it was exactly that Sherlock had in mind. But he said nothing, and watched as Calvin clambered up on the sofa beside his father.
“Do you remember our discussion about your mother?”
Calvin nodded hesitantly.
“The situation with my father is complicated,” Sherlock said finally. “It...has been easier for me to tell you that he is no longer alive. But I believe you are old enough to know - that isn’t the truth. But I have no idea where he is, and I feel that is best.”
“Uncle Mycroft could find him for you,” Cal suggested softly. Sherlock’s smile was sad.
“I have no doubt of that. But I don’t want him found. He...wasn’t a nice man. He found my existence to be something he regretted.”
"'Re- re-gret-ted'?"
“It means -” Sherlock ground to a halt, his jaw working noiselessly for several seconds. John’s stomach turned to stone as he watched Sherlock struggle to verbalize what he had always known but seldom - perhaps never - admitted out loud. "He...he didn't want me."
Something pricked behind John’s eyes at Sherlock’s raw voice, and he had to blink several times before the feeling faded. When he came back to their conversation again, Calvin’s face was screwed up in concentration and Sherlock - Sherlock looked devastated, his jaw tight and mouth pulled into a thin line, but he managed a quick smile when Calvin looked up at him again.
“Just like my mum didn’t want me.”
“The situations are similar.”
“But.” Cal chewed on his bottom lip. “Everyone at school has a grandpa. I want one, too. It looks nice.”
Sherlock opened his arm in invitation; Calvin settled against his side.
“What do you suppose,” he said finally, “the definition of ‘grandfather’ is?”
“My dad’s dad,” Calvin answered promptly. Sherlock nodded solemnly.
“And what would happen if I told you that Lest - that your Uncle Greg is the closest thing to a father I have ever known?”
Calvin blinked up at him in surprise, and then furrowed his brow. “He’s my grandpa?” He scrunched his nose, looking thoroughly displeased by the idea. “That’s weird, dad.”
Sherlock gave an uncharacteristically gentle smile and smoothed down the boy’s hair absently. “He fulfills many different roles for us, and he cares for you. Deeply.”
“Just don’t go around calling him grandpa, or it’ll be dad’s head on a platter,” John added from the kitchen, more for Sherlock’s benefit than Cal's. His husband smirked at him over Calvin’s head.
“I still want my mum,” Calvin whispered plaintively. Sherlock squeezed him against his side.
“Your mother,” he said softly, “thought it would be best if we raised you. She...wanted you to be happy, and knew she couldn’t give you what you needed. And she felt it would be best not to see you, just as my father...won’t see me.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with you,” John put in from his vantage point in the kitchen. “Just like there’s nothing wrong with dad. And we love you.”
Calvin sniffed. Sherlock wrapped him into a loose hug, burying his face in the blonde hair and adding, “Always, Cal.”
“Is this Jack?”
Sherlock blinked and looked up. “Sorry?”
John held out a photograph Calvin had handed him earlier in the day. The child had been going through Sherlock’s bookshelf, entertaining himself with the weight of the heavy tomes and the illustrations in the apiology texts. He had found the photograph in one of those books, tucked between illustrations of Apis mellifera and Apismellifera scutellata. “This. Is it Jack?”
The photograph was well-worn but not old, holding the creases and lines indicative of one that has been carried around in a wallet for some time. It had been a candid photo, the boy in it laughing and reaching for something just beyond the camera’s view. His dark locks lay tumbled across his forehead and his smile was painfully familiar; John felt his heart catch, and he hadn’t even known the child.
Oh, Greg...
Sherlock looked at John for a long moment, as though he were considering whether his answer would be worth the lie. He finally settled for asking, “Where did you find that?”
“I didn’t, actually. Cal did, in one of your books.” John ran his fingers lightly over the dated photo, realizing that that was the closest thing to a yes that he was going to get. He had assumed as much anyway, but he’d only seen a picture of Jack once and that had been before Calvin’s birth. “How old is he, here?”
“Three,” Sherlock said. “It was shortly before the diagnosis.”
“Did Greg give this to you?”
“No.” Sherlock paused to scribble something in his notebook. “He is aware that I have it, though, before you scold me that it’s improper to nick photographs of someone’s dead child.”
“I wasn’t - never mind.” John sighed. “He was a beautiful child. Looks just like his dad, actually. Except for the eyes - he get those from his mother?”
“I can’t say I spent a good amount of time looking into the eyes of Lestrade’s wife, John,” Sherlock said, the eye roll more than evident in his voice. He stepped back from the microscope, twirling a pen through restless fingers - a habit he had picked up after giving up cigarettes. He finally added, “He inherited his father’s...kindness, as well.”
John walked over to him and stood behind him, slipping his arms around the slim waist and propping his chin on the bony shoulder. Sherlock’s hands came up to cover his, and he leaned into the embrace. A moment later, John felt the photograph being pulled lightly from his grip.
“I find that...I still miss him,” Sherlock said finally. “Is that odd, John? He’s been gone for more years than I knew him.”
“No,” John whispered, heart cracking a bit. “No, that’s not odd at all, love. That’s very, very normal.”
Calvin bounded into the room moments later. The five-year-old tugged out a hard wooden chair and climbed onto it, a toy dinosaur in his hand, and regarded his parents cheerfully.
“Did you solve the mystery?” he asked, excited.
“Mystery?” John asked, lifting an eyebrow at him as he extracted himself from Sherlock.
“The boy in the picture! The one from daddy’s book.” Calvin said, pointing at the picture that Sherlock still had clutched in his hand.
John shot Sherlock a glance. Is he ready for this?
The eyes that met his were hesitant, and when Sherlock looked back down at the photograph John was forced to revise his silent question - was Sherlock ready for this?
“Actually, daddy’s...still working on it. I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon, though.” John ruffled Calvin’s hair. “Why don’t you go and wash up? Dinner’s going to be ready soon.”
Calvin hurried readily from the room, spurred on by the thought of food, and John turned to Sherlock.
“What do we tell him?”
Sherlock walked out into the living room, removed the apiology tome, and put Jack’s picture back between pages 342 and 343. His fingers drifted over the photograph for a moment before he closed the book and put it back on the shelf.
“We’ll discuss it after dinner,” he said decisively.
----
“Cal, come sit on the sofa with us,” John said, giving the boy a hand up. He settled between both his parents and looked expectantly at John. “Do you remember that picture you found this afternoon? Well, daddy actually does know who that little boy was. And we think you are old enough to know who he is, too.”
Sherlock pressed his fingers to Calvin’s wrist, grabbing the boy’s attention, and then said, “Lest - your Uncle Greg used to have a son, Calvin. Like you. And he was married, like I am to your papa. He had a family.”
“He doesn’t have a son,” Calvin said, a small line appearing between his brows.
“Not anymore,” Sherlock said.
“His son got very sick,” John added. “He had to go into the hospital, it was so bad. And he died, Calvin. He didn’t get better. Do you - do you know what that means?”
“Like Pete’s grandma,” Calvin said, still frowning. “She got old and went to sleep, and Pete said she never woke up. She couldn’t come back.”
“Yeah,” John said quietly. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“But he wasn’t old,” Calvin protested.
“Sometimes you aren’t old when you die,” Sherlock put in. “It doesn’t only happen when someone is old. It can happen at any time.”
“So...I could die?” Calvin said.
“You will die,” Sherlock pointed out, and John winced.
“No, no, Calvin, he doesn’t mean it like that,” John said hastily, shooting an alarmed look at Sherlock over Calvin’s head. Sherlock grimaced, recognizing that his words had been imprecise. “It...yes, everybody dies. Everyone...everyone will grow old someday, and eventually they will die. But that won’t happen to you for a long, long time. Many, many years from now.”
“But why?”
“Because your body’s cells are incapable of dividing an infinite number of times,” Sherlock said automatically, and at John’s look he rephrased. “Because you are not...built to live forever. No one is. Sometimes we get sick, and doctors can’t make us better. Or sometimes we grow old, and then we die naturally.”
“Do you understand?” John jumped in.
“Sorta,” Calvin said. “But what happens after?”
John winced. He knew this question would be coming, but hadn’t been sure how to address it.
“We don’t know,” he said diplomatically before Sherlock could answer. His husband closed his mouth and nodded, deferring to John’s explanation. “Perhaps nothing. It...isn’t possible to come back, at least. It’s forever.”
“So Uncle Greg will never see his son again,” Sherlock added softly. “But there are other ways we have found to keep him alive. In memories.”
He ran a finger under Calvin’s chin. “In you. You were named after Uncle Greg’s son. His name was Jack.”
“That’s my middle name,” Calvin said automatically, and Sherlock nodded.
“Yes. Your uncle gave us his name to use on you. Do you see?”
Calvin nodded. “Yeah.”
John ran a hand through Calvin’s hair. He doubted that Calvin had grasped everything they had said, but it at least opened the door for future conversations. “Well, if you have any questions, you can always ask us. Or Uncle Greg. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” John kissed the top of his head. “Right, go play. You’ve got a couple more hours until bedtime.”
Calvin scurried off.
“You all right?” John asked Sherlock softly. His husband was abnormally still, staring after Calvin.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said truthfully. “It...doesn’t feel as though he understands.”
“He will, someday. It’s a start. He’s only five - he can’t be expected to grasp everything yet.” John scooted closer to Sherlock on the sofa.
Sherlock’s face turned grave. “Have we done the right thing by telling him?”
“Yeah,” John said, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Sherlock’s chin. “You should probably give Greg a head’s up, though. Let him know that we’ve spoken to Calvin, and he may be getting questions. Just so he’s prepared.”
He felt Sherlock open his mouth to reply, but then an excited shout of, “Dad!” cut through the peace of the kitchen.
“Go on,” John said, laughing quietly. “This can wait.”
Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s forehead, and John felt the curve of his smile before he broke away and went to see to their son.
-----
Part Two
-----------
Previous Story: "The Little Things"
Next Story: "How Like a Winter"
-----------