Fic: A Child in the Night
Title: "A Child in the Night"
Pairings/Characters: Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Word Count: c. 3,400
Warnings: Mentions of past OC character death; Language; Angst
Spoilers: None
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: Sherlock finds that he is haunted by the circumstances of Lestrade’s son’s death.
Notes: Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse, but it's not necessary to have read every story in order to understand this one. Takes place between "Winter's Child" / "A Winter's Tale" and "Father and Other Father." The entire master list of these stories can be found here. A few lines from the middle section were provided by my wonderful partner-in-crime, canonisrelative. Title inspired by Stephen Sondheim's "Children Will Listen."
------
Calvin Watson was a restless child.
Take after your dad, you know, John would murmur whenever it was his turn to try to calm the baby, because Calvin’s irritability reminded him closely of Sherlock when he was bored and trying to find an outlet for his frustrations.
The parents had their tricks, of course. John often rocked Calvin to sleep over the squeaky floorboard by the window; Sherlock would sometimes put on his great coat and wrap the baby in its folds, allowing the warmth and scent to lull him. Sometimes these tricks would take a while to work, but rarely did they fail altogether.
This, unfortunately, was one of those times.
“Oh, c’mon buddy,” John said desperately, bouncing Calvin in his arms. He had lost track of how long now he had been attempting to calm Calvin, but it was long enough for him to resort to begging. “Please stop crying?”
The baby wailed in response, thrashing against his father’s hold. John set him in his bassinet with his toys, and the change of scenery had Calvin quiet for about three minutes. It was long enough for John to switch around the washing and clean up half of the hours-old disaster that had been lunch before Calvin started to cry once again.
“Oh, for -” But John held back his curse and lifted his little son back into his arms, worry eating at the inside of his chest. He tried a bottle, which worked for a minute before Calvin dislodged from it, twisting his face away and squirming.
“All right, then,” John muttered to himself, casting around for something he hadn’t tried. He wasn’t running a fever, hungry, or in need of changing. “What’s wrong, kid? Huh? Tell papa. You can’t be teething yet. It’s too soon. So what’s the matter?”
“He can’t speak, John, really,” Sherlock said as he breezed into the flat just then, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone.
“Well, he’s sobbing and I don’t know why,” John said, hearing the strain in his own voice and desperately trying to mask it. “I don’t know if he’s in pain or sick or - or - I don’t even know! He doesn’t have a fever, he won’t eat, he’s already had his nap -”
There was a warm pressure on his shoulder, and John cut off abruptly. Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s forehead and then leaned down to do the same to Calvin, even as the baby twisted away.
“What was that for?” John whispered, even as some of the tension in his shoulders melted away at Sherlock’s touch and his unexpected tenderness.
“He wants his elephant,” Sherlock said instead, brushing Calvin’s cheek with his thumb before going into the kitchen.
“His - what?” John asked, perplexed.
“His elephant. The one Mrs. Hudson gave him last month, remember?”
“Er -” John cast around, trying to remember. He heard Sherlock give a sigh, disappear into Calvin’s room, and emerge carrying a stuffed, gray elephant in his hand. He handed it to the baby, and the change was instantaneous. Calvin’s wails quieted, and he lay sniffling in John’s arms, peering through bleary eyes at his toy.
“I -” John swallowed. “I didn’t know.”
“That’s quite all right,” Sherlock said. He squeezed John’s shoulder and, phone in hand, made for their room. “I did.”
The relative peace only lasted an hour. John was pecking away at his laptop and Sherlock was on his way out the door to check in with his homeless network about a case when Calvin started sobbing anew, and Sherlock paused in order to comfort the baby. But Calvin refused his elephant and his bear, twisted out of the way of his bottle, and wailed at each creak of the loose floorboard.
John fared no better when he came to relieve Sherlock and, facing yet another sleepless night in a long string of them, finally asked in desperation, “Can we call Greg?”
Sherlock scowled at the thought, tense already with the sounds of his son’s wails. “We’re his parents, John. We should be able to fix it for him.”
“And Greg has more experience in this area. Plus, I’m desperate. I haven’t slept properly in days, and I’ve got an early shift tomorrow.” He looked back down at his son’s red face. “And I can’t stand seeing him like this.”
Sherlock glanced at Calvin once more, and then tugged out his mobile.
----
“Hey, sport,” Lestrade greeted Calvin when he entered the flat fifteen minutes later, nose and ears red from the short walk from his car through the bitter spring wind. His words were barely audible over the child’s wails. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it over the back of a chair, commenting to Sherlock, “God, he’s grown.”
“Sorry to have called you out here,” John said wearily as Lestrade approached him. “I promise you that we tried everything we could possibly think of.”
“Don’t ever apologize for this,” Lestrade assured, and John shifted his arms in order to transfer Calvin fluidly over to his godfather.
The cries stopped.
John and Sherlock stared dumbly at one another, and then at Calvin.
“What -”
“I swear -”
“Easy, lads,” Lestrade said, laughter in his voice. “It’s all right; I believe you. He looks like he’s been crying for ages. Sometimes all it takes is a different set of arms.”
He rocked Calvin for several moments and the baby, heavy-lidded, shoved his thumb in his mouth and sighed through his nose.
“I don’t believe it,” John muttered, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “But - we can’t call you every time he just wants someone else to hold him!”
“You can indulge him just a bit,” Lestrade said as he gazed down at Calvin, the gentle lilt in his voice telling John that he wasn’t focused entirely on the two parents. He adjusted his grip so Calvin was tucked closer to his chest, ear resting over Lestrade’s heart, and John passed a hand over his mouth to mask his smile. He shared a glance with Sherlock and saw that the corner of his husband’s eyes had crinkled in amusement.
John got the distinct impression that Lestrade wouldn’t mind indulging Calvin more than just a bit, if given half the chance.
“Is that better?” Lestrade murmured to the baby, leaning down so that his lips brushed Calvin’s forehead. The baby’s eyelids fluttered and Lestrade straightened, though he continued to rock him gently. “D’one of you want to take him?”
“Just put him down over there,” John said in an undertone, nodding over to where Calvin’s bassinet had been set up near the sofa. He didn’t want to risk waking the baby with any jostling movements. Lestrade laid Calvin down and tucked the blankets around him. The baby’s face was slack now, and Calvin didn’t stir as Lestrade brushed his thumb across the drying tear trails.
“Well, now that I’m here,” he said, turning back to the parents with a smile, “Sherlock, d’you mind me picking your brain about a case?”
They slipped outside while John collapsed on the sofa, exhausted.
-----
Lestrade pulled out a packet of cigarettes as soon as they were outside, offering one to Sherlock before taking one himself. They leaned against the wall as they smoked, watching the passing traffic for some moments before Lestrade began to carefully outline his case. It was a cold one, over a decade old at this point, but he pulled it out again every year as winter melted into spring. He would be getting a call sometime in the next few days - the victim’s mother, who called him personally on the anniversary of her daughter’s death every year to ask if any progress had been made.
He was tired of saying no.
Unfortunately, Sherlock could offer little insight without actually being able to see the file.
“Come by tomorrow during my lunch break,” Lestrade offered. “We can go over it then. And feel free to bring Calvin if Mrs. Hudson’s busy. I know John has to work.”
“I will,” Sherlock said with a brisk nod. He smoked for a moment and then asked, “Do you resent it?”
Lestrade blinked. He would never get used to Sherlock’s segues.
“I’m sorry?” he asked. “Resent what?”
“The baby. Calvin.” Sherlock risked a glance at him, and then returned to his cigarette. “Do you resent us having him?”
“Why?” Lestrade asked, buying himself some time. Where the hell had this come from?
“I would,” Sherlock said simply. Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
“You? Sherlock, you’re not exactly one to compare what you don’t have with what others do.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you resent it?”
Lestrade took a long pull from the cigarette and leaned back against the wall. “I don’t think resent is quite the right word.”
“What is the right word?”
“There’s no one word for this, Sherlock. It’s complicated.”
“And you think I wouldn’t understand.”
“No, I just think it’s better off left unsaid.”
Sherlock looked at him then, and even in the dark Lestrade could make out the piercing eyes. “I want to know, Lestrade. Understand.”
“I don’t think it’ll make you happy.”
“What does that matter?”
“It matters to me. Look, Sherlock, you’ll get to watch your son grow up. I had to watch mine die.” Lestrade sighed, and then repeated, softly, “It’s complicated.”
Sherlock gave an impatient huff of breath.
“And even if I wanted to answer it,” Lestrade went on, “I don’t think I’d ever be able to. There aren’t enough words for this. So - just leave it, yeah? I care very much for your son; that isn’t going to ever change.”
He ground out his cigarette on the wall and moved to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Call me if you need anything before then.”
-----
John was half-asleep on the sofa when Sherlock returned. The sharp scent of tobacco clung faintly to his shirt, but this one time John decided against saying anything. They sometimes needed the physical bond of cigarettes, Sherlock and Lestrade, in order to talk about the things that mattered. John couldn’t deny them that.
Sherlock crossed to the window and peeled back the curtain; John pushed himself wearily to his feet and joined him.
“I don’t understand how he can bear it, John.”
“How can who? Bear what?”
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, nodding to the window. John came up behind him and followed his gaze, watching as Lestrade got into his car at the end of the darkened street.
“Sorry, Sherlock,” he said softly, slipping an arm around the thin waist, “I still don’t follow.”
Sherlock swallowed and was quiet for some moments. They watched Lestrade drive away and then he finally said, “Calvin is my world, now. He is everything. And if something were to happen to him - it would be the same as the world ending. Literally ending, John. I can’t comprehend -” He stopped, shook his head. “Lestrade’s world ended years ago. He’s still here.”
Sherlock let the curtain fall away from his grip. “How can he bear it?”
“He had you,” John said, resting his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder. “You do realize that, right?”
Sherlock turned to kiss the top of John's head, and then that seemingly wasn't enough for him; his fingers firm and demanding - far nicer words than scared and desperate - under John's chin tilted his face up so that Sherlock could kiss him fully. That old feeling, like Sherlock wanted - needed - to devour him, came rushing back as John sank into the kiss.
Behind them in his bassinet where Lestrade had laid him down, Calvin started to fuss. Sherlock's head whipped around and John had to put both arms around him to keep him still.
"He's fine, love," John murmured in his ear, holding him tight. "Remember what Greg said last month, sometimes you just have to--"
"I can't just let him cry," Sherlock hissed, but didn't struggle. "If something's wrong that means it can be fixed. And I'm his father; I should be able to fix it."
"Nothing's wrong, Sherlock. Shhh...listen...he's already quieted down, didn't even wake himself up."
Sherlock turned to drop his head to John's shoulder, burying his face in his neck, putting weak arms loosely around him. "I'm such a rubbish father."
"No worse than me." John hugged him fiercely. And then, because tonight was the closest they’d come in years to discussing it, John chanced the question that had been sitting in the back of his mind since before Calvin’s birth. “You never told me about Jack, you know.”
“I have,” Sherlock pointed out as he pulled out of John’s grip, and John recalled the quiet moment they had shared in the cemetery on the day of Calvin’s birth.
“You know that’s not what I mean."
His husband was silent for a very long time. John dragged the tip of his tongue across dry lips, apprehensive.
“He was diagnosed the day after his fourth birthday,” Sherlock said at last in an almost too-quiet voice, his tone flat and eerily devoid of emotion, odd even for him. “He’d been in pain for a while and had been having motor-control issues. Neither Lestrade nor his wife were prepared for the diagnosis. They were concerned, but hadn’t expected the problem to be quite so serious.” Sherlock paused, flexing his hand into a fist. “Neither did I. The signs were there but I - I didn’t observe.”
“No one could have predicted that,” John said as he mentally filled in the piece that Sherlock wouldn't say - tumor. Sherlock nodded absently.
“He spent the next year in and out of hospitals as treatment after treatment failed. He lived long enough to turn five, and died that spring.” Sherlock paused for a moment and then murmured, “Lestrade always found that ironic, dying during the annual period of rebirth and renewal.”
“He was obviously important to you,” John said, matching Sherlock’s soft tone.
“He was a child,” Sherlock said, moving abruptly into the kitchen. John followed. “He hadn’t yet had time to grow up and become an idiot like the rest of you lot. He had...potential.”
Sherlock leaned over the sink, arms straight, hands braced on the edge of the counter. He hung his head as John came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle. “He was fond of me. I am still unsure as to why, precisely. And Greg -”
He stopped; John pressed a hand to his hip, and he continued quietly, “And Greg is alone, now. His child is dead; his marriage failed. He - it bothers me, John. It shouldn’t, but it does.”
“Greg’s got you, still,” John said finally. “And Cal. Me. We aren’t going anywhere. It’s not a replacement, no, but he isn’t alone. We wouldn’t let that happen.”
John pulled back and turned Sherlock around so they were pressed together, thighs to stomachs, arms loosely around one another. “And Jack wasn’t alone. That counts for something. You did well, Sherlock. You’re a good man.”
“So you keep saying,” Sherlock said, but a small note of amusement crept into his tone. John gave an inward sigh of relief. He had been afraid this would be one of the bad nights, the ones where Sherlock withdrew and lost himself to the past; lost himself to the horror he shared with Lestrade.
John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s temple. “Come on. Let’s take the little one and go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
-----
John woke to an empty bed later that same night, which wasn’t itself an unusual occurrence, but it hadn’t started out that way and it was rare for Sherlock to leave once he was settled (unless it was to check on the baby). He rolled over to glance at the time - 4:17 - and then tugged at the blankets, rearranging them around his body again and sinking back into his pillow. But now that he was awake sleep was proving elusive, especially because there was a nagging thought at the back of his mind that this wasn’t right. He strained his ears, but there came no sound of cries from Calvin’s room, and no rustling from the kitchen to indicate that he was being fed.
He sat up and pushed the blankets away, grabbing for a jumper and dragging it on as he stepped out of their warm room and into the cool air of the stairwell. The living room was dark when he entered, and there was no sign of Sherlock by the window, rocking Calvin to sleep on the loose floorboard. The kitchen was dark as well, and a quick glance at the sofa showed that Sherlock’s shoes were still discarded underneath; his great coat strewn across it.
John walked down the short hallway just off the kitchen and saw that the door to Calvin’s room was slightly ajar. He pushed at it and stuck his head around the corner. It took his eyes a moment to adjust from the dim light of the rest of the flat to the complete darkness that was Cal’s room, and when they did he noticed Sherlock sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest and forearms resting across them.
“Hey,” he breathed, slipping into the room and dropping to the floor beside his husband. “What’re you doing down here?”
Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him and then returned to the crib. He shook his head.
“I’m not sure.”
“Is something wrong? Was he crying?”
“No. He hasn’t woken.”
“C’mon, then,” John said gently after a moment, putting a hand on his arm and moving to get up. “Let’s go back to bed, yeah?”
“What if he gets sick, John?” Sherlock asked abruptly.
Oh, God.
“He won’t,” John said softly, sitting back down and moving a bit closer to his husband. He kept his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You can’t be certain of that.” Sherlock drew a deep breath through his nose. “I find myself at odds, John. I am a scientist; I rely on facts and evidence. The universe is random, and yet there are infallible laws that govern its existence. I put my, for lack of better word, faith in biology and chemistry and physics. But what law of the universe allows a child to become ill and die before his parents?”
Sherlock brought his hand to rest on John’s. “It would seem contradictory to nature, for a child to die before he has a chance to pass on his genes. It’s...wrong. And yet it happened. Happens.”
John was momentarily speechless, because in the five years they had known one another, this was the closest they had ever come to discussing anything remotely close to belief. He had long known Sherlock’s views on the subject, and his own were too vague to even be an issue. He never gave them more than a passing thought most days, and only stepped foot in a church at Christmas, or whenever times had been bad and he’d felt it was truly the only option he had left for relief. He had found solace there on occasion, in the years before Baker Street; he’d admit that.
But Sherlock had long ago become the temple John worshipped at; his name and Cal's, the only prayers on John’s lips.
“He’s not going to get sick,” John repeated. “He’s - he’s healthy, he’s strong, we take good care of him -”
Sherlock's response was waspish. “And Lestrade didn’t?”
John swallowed hard. “No. No, that’s not what I meant - I - Jesus, Sherlock, I know. I know how you feel, I worry about it too. But there’s nothing we can do but be vigilant, yeah? And - and technology’s come a long way in the past ten years. There are treatments now that could only be dreamed about when Jack got sick.”
“He might’ve lived,” Sherlock said hollowly, “if only he’d been born a few years later.”
“It’s awful, what happened," John said softly. "It was wrong. But we can’t put our lives on hold, worrying over something that might never happen to Calvin. You just...have to keep moving forward. Keep living. And if he does get sick...we deal with it then."
Sherlock shook his head; John laced their fingers together and squeezed.
“We just,” John continued with a sigh, “keep moving on. One day at a time.”
Sherlock got up from the floor and went to go stand over Calvin’s crib. He reached down and ran his hand lightly over the sleeping baby’s head, jostling the stars and planets that hung over him. They cut lazy circles through the air, glinting with every turn as they caught the faint glow from the night light.
Calvin sighed at his father’s touch but didn’t wake.
“You will be safe, Cal,” Sherlock murmured. And then he added, so quietly that John wondered if he was imagining it, “Please be safe.”
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Previous Story: "Winter's Child"
Next Story: "Father's Day"
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