(no subject)
Title: “Fatherly Wisdom”
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; OC (Calvin Jack)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Spoilers: None
Word Count: c. 2,000
Warnings: Pointless fluff. Also, those of you who dislike dental procedures might want to avoid this one.
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: Sherlock shares a quiet moment with his ill son.
Notes: Operates in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse and takes place after “Merely Players,” though it can be read as a stand-alone. The master list can be found here. The blame for the title rests entirely with canonisrelative, who also gets credit for a portion of the dialogue.
John didn’t linger at the surgery that night, as he normally did after his shift had finished. He usually used the time to go over paperwork or to chat with Sarah, and sometimes he would even take on a couple of extra patients on nights when they were particularly busy in order to relieve some of the strain. After all, he wasn’t needed at home the way he had been when Calvin was small. Cal and Sherlock were mostly able to fend for themselves now when John was away - though it was impossible for either of them to make a meal without a disaster or two occurring in the process. In their defense, however, both had turned out to be excellent cooks.
But Calvin was confined to the sofa tonight, having had his wisdom teeth pulled earlier in the day. John hadn’t heard from Sherlock, which he took to be good news. Had anything gone wrong, or had Calvin been displaying even the slightest signs of a complication, John was certain that his mobile would have been going off every five minutes. It was a routine procedure, but still Sherlock worried. And, John readily admitted, routine surgery or no, Calvin was still going to be in discomfort for some time and he wanted to be home for his son.
“How’s our boy?” John asked softly after he had arrived home and padded into the kitchen. Calvin was asleep, it appeared, and huddled under a mound of blankets. Sherlock was in the process of making tea as John greeted him, and lifted his gaze briefly to glance at Cal’s still form.
“In pain,” Sherlock said tightly. “But it’s better now than it was earlier.”
“Well, that’s good news,” John said softly, putting a hand between his shoulder blades and rubbing for a moment. Sherlock had a hard time with Calvin in any sort of discomfort or suffering from any illness, even a cold. He bore it well, but John knew it harked back to the days when he had watched Lestrade’s son wither away and die; Lestrade was the same way with Calvin. It made John’s heart ache. “Thank you for taking care of him. Everything go all right?”
“Yes. There weren’t any unforeseen complications.” Sherlock handed John his mug, and sipped for a moment from his own. “The swelling hasn’t receded much, however. And he wasn’t able to stomach the strong pain killers, so we’ve had to make do with what we have here in the flat.”
“They did warn he might have a harder time than most, with his jaw and all,” John mused. “Poor kid. But it’s over now, for the most part. It’ll get better from here.”
Sherlock hummed and said nothing, content with drinking his tea and watching his sleeping son.
John retired earlier than usual and Sherlock stayed in the kitchen, reading through a newly-published paper on the timeline of insect activity on a decomposing corpse if it is left out in the desert of the southwestern United States. He was on page forty-seven when the bundle of blankets on the sofa suddenly stirred, and set it aside to check on Calvin.
“It’s eleven,” Sherlock said, guessing as to the nature of the questioning look in Cal’s eyes as he bent over his son. “You have been asleep for six hours. Do you require more medication?”
Cal nodded, and Sherlock pursed his lips at the bleary eyes that met his own. He avoided painkillers for this very reason, for he despised how slow they made his mind. But they would alleviate Cal’s suffering, and that was more than justification enough for his son to have some.
When Cal had managed to swallow the medication and settled into the blankets once more, Sherlock got a fresh cold compress from the freezer and pressed it against the side of Cal’s face, sitting on the sofa near his son’s hips so as better to hold it there. Cal tried to take it from him, but he shook his head.
“Just sleep. I can handle this for a while.”
“Why?” Cal mumbled around the cotton in his mouth.
Sherlock brushed the strands of hair off his forehead. “Because you’re my son.”
“Not... logical.”
Sherlock smiled at the invocation of his old argument for everything that wasn’t practical.
“Parenthood is, by definition, not logical,” he pointed out. “I think you should forgive me this lapse.”
“M’kay.” Cal appeared to be waking, which dismayed Sherlock. He’d have liked Calvin to sleep through the worst of the pain, though he realized that this was unrealistic, especially given that he had been dozing on and off since the early morning. He didn’t have the aid of strong painkillers to help him sleep.
“I know how you feel,” he said suddenly, John’s voice in his mind. Relate to him.
“Mm?” Cal said, eyes slipping closed as Sherlock readjusted the compress.
“Yes. I was badly injured on a case some years back. I was in a good deal of pain as a result, and I also rejected traditional painkillers. Your papa had to take care of me. And Uncle Greg.”
“s’nice,” Cal mumbled, and Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips.
“Yes. It was kind of them.”
They sat in silence for several long minutes. Sherlock eventually persuaded Calvin to lift his head so that he could press the compress against his other cheek. He recalled that silences such as this were considered uncomfortable and awkward for most, and so switched on the television for some ‘background noise,’ as John would call it. Calvin remained awake, but bleary, and could not be persuaded to say much of anything. Sherlock didn’t mind; they had never really needed words, he and Calvin.
“Wha’ happened?”
“Hmm? Oh. My injuries, you mean?” At Calvin’s nod, Sherlock said, “I had been on my way to a crime scene. The cab I was riding in got struck by another vehicle. The driver was killed instantly. I was only slightly more fortunate.”
Calvin was fully awake now, eyes swimming with curiosity at this previously-unknown chapter of his father’s life. Sherlock was reminded sharply of Calvin-the-child; of nights spent curled up with his son on the bed upstairs, teaching him about chemicals and elements while wide blue eyes watched him in awe.
“I was unconscious for days,” Sherlock continued, moving the compress to the other side of Calvin’s face.
“Don’ remember this.”
“Unsurprising. You were quite young at the time - though you fancied yourself an adult already, if memory serves.” Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips at both the memory and Calvin’s look of stupefaction. “Oh, yes. You became quite adept at taking my temperature and feeling for my pulse. You even tried to make tea, because that’s what Papa did. He put a stop to that one, however.”
“God,” Calvin mumbled, flushing. Sherlock couldn’t resist a chuckle.
“I believe, at one point, you even tried to read to me,” he continued. “But you were too young, of course. You simply knew what being read to looked like. I was still confined to the sofa, as it was easier for Papa and I couldn’t manage stairs very well. So you took one of my books, climbed up here, and showed me every page with a picture on it.” Sherlock carded his fingers through Calvin’s hair and added, “You were quite proud of yourself.”
Calvin yawned widely. “God. Why’d y’even want me?”
Sherlock’s fingers stilled. “I assume you mean why did we want a child, as opposed to you in particular.”
“Too m’ny words, Dad,” Calvin mumbled groggily.
“Apologies,” Sherlock said with a quick smile that faded as he considered the question. “To be perfectly honest, I felt it would be the ideal experiment.”
Calvin’s eyes snapped open, and then he glared.
“Did not.”
“No, you’re right.” Sherlock said with a gentle smile.
“Y’r sense of humour... is crap,” Calvin decided. “An’ y’r stalling.”
Sherlock shook his head but didn’t bother denying it. There were few on this planet who could read him as well as Calvin; even John had difficulty with it at times.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you a satisfactory answer to that question,” he said. “Nothing more fulfilling than because I wanted one, at least.”
“You?” Calvin blinked slowly at him. “Y’r... idea?”
“Yes. I was the one who first broached the idea with John.”
“Why?”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away but continued to run calming fingers through Calvin’s hair. He recalled those days and nights spent turning over the idea in his mind, how one glimpse of a child’s jumper in a shop window had grabbed hold of him and refused to let go. It had only grown from there, a maddening and terrifying notion that crept into every spare corner of his hard drive, taking up space meant for numbers and figures and experiments. The world around him had ground to a halt, it had seemed, and remained that way until he finally admitted the unfathomable desire out loud.
“Sometimes,” he said at last, “there is no logical reason. I desired something that by all rights was completely impractical. Children are financially draining, not to mention the fact that I am hardly the most stable of men, your papa was an ex-soldier still recovering from his wound, and Baker Street wasn’t exactly child-friendly. And yet... it was something I wanted. You were something I wanted. Quite badly, as it turned out.
“You know the rest. We were fortunate enough to find your mother not long after.”
“What was she like?”
Sherlock’s fingers stilled for a moment. Calvin had never asked about his mother in this manner before. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned her in years, not since he was a child and trying to figure out why the woman who gave birth to him didn’t want to claim him as her own.
“You have her nose,” Sherlock said after a moment of thought, drawing on what little he had stored in his hard drive of Cal’s mother while John’s voice filled his ears.
He’s not looking to be reminded that he wasn’t wanted.
“Could’ve done without that,” Calvin murmured. He had always been uncomfortably aware of the fact that his nose, like Sherlock’s, was sharp; slightly too large for his face. It was only now, as he approached sixteen, that he was starting to grow into it.
Sherlock snorted and poked him on the nose; Calvin sluggishly turned his head away, but offered up a lopsided smile. “She enjoyed literature, and preferred snow over sun. And you inherited her affinity for strawberries.”
“When did’ya meet her?”
“She was approximately five months along when we met.”
“Betcha deduced her, didn’t you?” Calvin paused, yawned, and added, “Figured out her whole life story, first time y’met. An’ Papa woulda waited until the cab ride home to hit you for it.”
“That’s... a fairly accurate summary, yes. And I believe that’s enough of delving into the past for one evening,” Sherlock said with a half-hearted grimace. “Or, at least, my past.”
He bent to press his lips to Calvin’s temple. “I know John said that you weren’t to have visitors while you’re recovering. However, if you would like to invite Skye over tomorrow, I don’t see how that would be a problem.”
“Papa doesn’t really... like Skye,” Calvin whispered.
“No,” Sherlock allowed. “But it would make you happy, and I know John would choose that every time.”
“F’r a detective, y’haven’t been very observant,” Calvin said. He rolled his head to one side so that he wasn't looking at Sherlock. Finally he mumbled, "S'nothin' t'mention. Don' talk ennamore."
Sherlock smoothed his hand over his mouth to avoid reaching for Cal again. The pain in his son's eyes whenever Skye was mentioned was subtle, but there nonetheless. "Why is that?"
"Why's it matter? S'not like we were..." Calvin blinked and fell silent; Sherlock had the distinct impression that he'd been about to say something he'd decided he was never going to say aloud.
"Not like you were...what?" Sherlock prodded. It was hard for him, finding the line between respecting his son's privacy and wanting to know everything about him.
"Weren't that close," Calvin said at last. "Only knew 'im couple months, anyway. Jus’... had our differences, is all.”
“It happens.”
“Does it?” Calvin said bitterly.
“It does. John and I had our... differences, long before you were born. But here we are.” Sherlock moved his hand so that it was resting on Calvin’s back, and added, “You should text him in the morning. But sleep, now. We’ll be upstairs if you need us. Do you have your mobile?”
“S’on the table,” Calvin murmured, pointing at the table next to the sofa. Sherlock nodded.
“Sleep well, Cal.”
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