(no subject)
Title: “The Colours Dull, and Candles Dim”
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, OMC
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Word Count: c. 3,200
Warnings: Angst and fluff. Pretty much in that order.
Spoilers: None
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: This Christmas is different.
Notes: I believe there was a little bit of confusion on the previous fic, so many apologies for my convoluted author’s note! I realize it was a bit rambly. This is the final part of the WC ‘verse. Title comes from this song. A timeline for the series can be found here. More notes are at the end.
Four o’clock, Skye always said, was a dreadful time of day. The doldrums of the afternoon, he’d bemoan, when the sun sat heavy in the sky, full and golden, neither rising nor setting. The air would be too still; thick with melancholy. It was as though everything had been suspended in time, and there was nothing to do but wait.
Cal was inclined to agree on this particular afternoon, made all the more miserable by the fact that the holiday traffic was moving at a speed just a tick above standstill. He had hoped to leave earlier in the day, but thought it best not to push his luck at his new job. As it was, he had ducked out of work two hours early in order to make the journey to his parents’ cottage in the South Downs.
Normally, he looked forward to Christmas, his enthusiasm for the holiday as strong now as it had been when he was six, seven, eight years old. But this was the first time that they would number three rather than four, and he found he did not greet the impending visit with as much enthusiasm as he had in previous years. His apprehension was made all the more acute by the stalled traffic. With no task to focus his mind on, his thoughts kept straying to the similar drive he had made not four months ago, racing home on this very road only to find he hadn’t made it in time to say goodbye to his godfather.
The cottage looked much the same when he finally arrived early in the evening, and Cal found this disconcerting. It was pristine white when seen from the head of the drive, a speck of brilliance set amidst the dark of the wood. Up close, the toll of the years showed on the whitewashed walls; the paint was cracked and peeling in some places and worn away completely in others. But it was superficial damage--the cottage was steady and unyielding, its walls and foundation fortified by Uncle Greg and Papa when the small family made their move all those years ago.
Cal had expected the cottage to look different somehow, though it had been mere months since he last set eyes on it. He had, absurdly, thought to find some physical manifestation of the loss they all felt so keenly. But he stepped into the foyer to find everything in its rightful place--even Toby, who gave a quiet woof in greeting before settling his head between his paws again and resuming his nap on the floor.
The cottage had been built in the middle of a small wood, what Uncle Greg sometimes mused was probably the only bit of isolation left on their island country. There were fields beyond the tree line where Dad kept his hives and his work, but for Uncle Greg the twilight of his life had been spent here, in the cottage among the yew trees.
And that was where he rested now, in the shadow of the largest tree on the property. Part of him, at least--a smattering of his ashes sprinkled next to a marble stone that bore his name. The rest of his remains were in London with Jack. Papa had seen to all of that with his usual calm efficiency, even in the face of such loss. Dad, weak with grief in the days following Uncle Greg’s death, had retained just enough sense of himself to make it through the day and comfort Cal. He had been in no shape to plan Uncle Greg’s burial and, when the day came, couldn’t bring himself to follow Greg’s remains to London.
Cal couldn’t blame him, as he had yet to even visit the grave in his own backyard. But that was where Papa was now, he saw through the kitchen window, and so, with a bracing sigh, Cal stepped out onto the back porch and made for the ancient yew.
Papa was crouched low over Uncle Greg’s grave, hand outstretched, palm resting flat on the cool stone. Cal paused some paces away. His father’s eyes were closed, his head bowed so low that his chin nearly met his chest. After some moments he drew a deep sigh through his nose and blinked open his eyes. He pressed his hands to his thighs and pushed himself to his feet with a groan; at that point, Cal took a few deliberate steps forward, the packed snow giving way beneath his feet and announcing his presence.
“People call the yew the Tree of Death,” he said as he approached. “‘Cos many parts of the tree are poisonous. Fitting name, yeah?”
Papa turned, and the grief dissipated from his face as he set eyes on Cal. He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and opened his arms.
“You sound like your dad,” he muttered fondly, embracing his son. “It’s good to see you so soon, Cally. We weren’t expecting you until tonight.”
“I managed to get off of work early,” Cal said, returning his father’s firm hug. When they broke apart, he found his gaze straying to the small stone. “Does Dad ever come out here?”
Papa let out a soft huff of breath.
“No. You know how he is. The body is a vessel. Whatever Uncle Greg is - was - isn’t here anymore, not for him. Remains are nothing but bone and ash. He spends his time with Greg’s books; his journals. Even Toby, though God knows how that dog’s managed to live as long as he has.”
Cal snorted, remembering the puppy that had greeted him so enthusiastically as a child. They had grown up together; raised one another, Uncle Greg had sometimes liked to joke.
Papa touched his shoulder briefly and added, “I’ll see you back at the house. Take your time.”
----
Sherlock came home smelling of earth and mint, and answered John’s questioning glance with, “The shape of a bird’s beak will correspond directly to its diet in the wild, did you know?”
He set his boots by the door and gave Toby a pat on the head in greeting. John blinked at him, processing his words, and then snorted.
“I know, to you, that means something,” he said as he returned to chopping vegetables, “but that doesn’t really answer why you rushed out of here halfway through lunch.”
Sherlock paused in the kitchen doorway, looking suddenly uneasy.
“Ah,” he said. “I see. That was... an oversight on my part. Forgive me, John, but I had an idea that needed immediate attention. I wanted to finish my latest experiment prior to Calvin’s visit, so I would not have anything else commanding my attention for the weekend.”
“Do I look angry to you?” John glanced up, and flashed him a grin. “It’s good to know some things don’t change, and I wouldn’t have you any other way, you prat.”
Sherlock relaxed and smiled. John arched a questioning eyebrow at him.
“Well? Did you finish it?”
“Hmm? Oh, nearly. I’ll need to use the kettle later.”
Sherlock came to stand by John, shifting his weight so they were pressed together, hips to elbows to shoulders. He brushed his chilled fingers over John’s warm skin, skimming the peaks and valleys of his heavily-veined hand.
“When did this happen?” he murmured.
“When we weren’t looking,” John replied, and then craned his neck for a kiss that was readily given. “I love you.”
Sherlock pulled him close, and whispered his reply across John’s brow.
“I love you, too, John.”
----
Cal came back to the cottage to find that Dad had returned, and that he and Papa were locked in their usual battle for kitchen space.
“I just need -”
“No, Sherlock, do you remember what happened the last time you tried to boil cow eyes? We couldn’t get the smell out for weeks.”
“And, presumably, I have learned from that failed experiment, or I would not be attempting it again. Honestly, John, I’m a scientist. I -”
“I swear to God, Sherlock, you make one more move toward that kettle and you’re sleeping with Toby tonight!”
“How do you two manage when I’m away?” Cal interrupted his bickering parents. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching the two men in amusement. Dad whirled at the sound of his voice, his face melting from irritation to pleasure.
“Calvin,” he said in surprise, crossing the distance between them in two quick strides and delivering a tight hug that rivaled Papa’s. “John didn’t say -”
“I wanted him to surprise you,” Papa said with a soft smile. To Cal, he said, “He’s been looking forward to this visit for ages. Was up at dawn to clean, can you imagine? When was the last time you saw Dad clean anything, eh?”
Dad released Cal and glared at his husband; Papa smirked and turned back to dinner preparations.
They sat down to eat less than an hour later, and for most of the meal Cal was treated to an extensive list of Dad’s experiments and Toby’s latest antics. He was grateful for this reprieve, in all honesty. He never had been one for talking about himself, and tonight especially he was bringing news he wasn’t sure his parents would receive well. But, inevitably, the conversation circled back around to him.
“Cal,” Papa said at last, steering them away from discussion of Dad’s beehives, “you’ve been awfully quiet tonight. What’ve you been up to lately? Anything new since we last spoke?”
“Well, uh, I actually have some news.” Cal smoothed his clammy hands on his trousers and then reached for his glass of wine, downing large one gulp as he felt two pairs of curious eyes land on him. “I - well, I’m going to, er, be published. It’s nothing big or anything, just a couple of stories I wrote last year, but - uh - yeah. I submitted them to this paper and, well...”
He trailed off as he ran out of air, but Papa was already leaping in to fill the gap.
“Cal, that’s wonderful!” He reached across the table and squeezed Cal’s wrist. Cal gave him a tentative smile and then chanced a glance at Dad. His eyes were shining, Cal noticed with a twinge, and a small smile graced his lips. He raised his glass to Cal, nodding in approval, and Cal let out a breath of relief.
“Well, that’s not all,” Cal said quickly, knowing that he needed to say this now or he never would have the nerve to get it out. “I - that is, we -” He hesitated, and then said in a rush, “Skye and I are moving in together. This June. We’ve found a flat and everything. It’s - well, it’s near Baker Street, actually.”
This time, it was Dad who broke the silence.
“Congratulations, Cal,” he said quietly.
“I - really?”
“Yes, you ridiculous child,” Papa said fondly. “We like Skye. Right, Sherlock?”
“He’s very bright.”
“There you have it. A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one,” Papa said with a barely-restrained eye roll at his husband. Dad made a face at him in return, and Cal laughed.
----
Calvin assisted with the after-dinner cleanup while Dad disappeared down the darkened hallway that led out from the kitchen.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Off brooding, I expect,” Papa said, and though this wasn’t an unusual occurrence for Dad, the smile Papa gave Cal was sad. He felt his heart fall a fraction.
“Not taking it well?”
Papa shrugged. “He’s dealing with it as well as can be expected. But this is Dad, after all. Losing someone close to you is always hard, and he’s never viewed the world in quite the same way as the rest of us. So I think for him it’s almost twice the struggle, sometimes.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Where do you think?” Papa answered gently. He nodded at the wall, beyond which sat the porch and the rest of the property. “He’s communing with the stars.”
-----
Castor and Pollux were sitting low on the eastern horizon that night. The rest of the constellation Gemini spread out from those two bright stars, filling most of the visible sky between the bare branches of the trees. The sun had disappeared hours before, and so Sherlock conducted his work by artificial light. He was sorting through a pile of photographs and scraps of paper, all of which had been collected from Lestrade’s desk. He had not been compelled, until this week, to even so much as enter Lestrade’s old room, and so these items had gone untouched for months.
“Pa said you’d be out here.”
Sherlock didn’t glance up from his work as the door behind him slid open and familiar steps padded over to him.
“Calvin, you know how I dislike pointless prefaces to conversations.”
“Then I’ll be direct.” Calvin finished fastening his jacket and then sat down next to Sherlock on the step. He took one of the photographs from his father’s hand. “These were his?”
“Yes.”
Calvin offered the picture only a cursory glance and then handed it back to Sherlock. It had been from his seventh birthday, and featured not only Lestrade but Liam Dimmock as well.
Happier times.
Sherlock shook the thought from his mind as he filed the photograph away, tucking it into place in the album he was compiling. Move on, John had said, but how was he expected to do so when so much of his world had been shattered; when its very foundation had been ripped from him? It had hardly been unexpected, and yet -
“I didn’t want to come back for Christmas,” Calvin said suddenly, tearing Sherlock from his thoughts.
“Why?” he blurted, startled.
“Because he isn’t here.” Calvin kept his eyes fixed on the pile of photographs that sat on the step between them, and he reached out hesitant fingers to touch them. A moment later, he was sifting through them, though Sherlock privately suspected that they were an excuse for Calvin not to have to look him in the eye.
“Calvin -” Sherlock started, and then stopped, for he truly could not fathom how to continue. He longed, sometimes, in the darkest days following Lestrade’s death, for Calvin-the-child; his beautiful baby boy, who loved him without question and knew him only as dad. Not Sherlock or Freak or Holmes or Son. Sherlock was dad, to one person on this planet and only one, and he treasured it in ways he never knew he was capable of, holding it close inside his chest and not daring to let it go. He missed that child, in his most selfish moments, one who could not process such grief and therefore didn’t need the comfort Sherlock had trouble providing.
But Calvin, as always, was capable of reading him in ways lost to even John, and in the silence he read the words that Sherlock wanted to say. He set aside the photograph he had been looking at and lifted red-rimmed eyes to Sherlock’s.
And then suddenly they were reaching for one another, bridging the gulf of memories that sat between them.
“I miss him so much it hurts, sometimes,” Calvin mumbled into Sherlock’s coat.
“I know.” Sherlock tightened his hold on Calvin. “He cared for you. Deeply. And I -”
His voice cracked, and failed him for a moment. He pushed aside the photographs that kept them apart and pulled Calvin closer, holding him to his chest in a way he hadn’t since Calvin had been a child. And then the words tumbled from his mouth, unstoppable now that he had started.
“You weren’t a replacement, Cal. Not for what he - we - had lost. You were - are - always your own person. He cared because you were his godson, and I -”
Sherlock swallowed hard, breathing for a moment the smell of Calvin’s apple-scented shampoo, “- and I love you. Very much. And I always shall.”
Calvin shuddered in his arms for a few minutes more, his tears soaking through Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock brushed a thumb across his tear-stained cheek, wiping away the fluid, and eventually Calvin composed himself enough to swipe the back of his hand across his eyes. He remained tucked against Sherlock’s side, however, his head resting against his father’s chest, his eyes fixed blankly on the horizon.
“You’re a good dad,” he whispered finally, his voice rough around the edges. Sherlock felt him swallow hard, and then Calvin added, “You always were. I know... I know you doubted it.”
Sherlock tensed, and then forced himself to relax so that Calvin wouldn’t feel his unease.
“Who said that?”
“No one,” Calvin said. “I can tell. I can always tell. But... But I couldn’t have asked for better parents. You and Papa both. I just - “
“Calvin,” Sherlock said gently, carding his fingers through Calvin’s hair, “I think you’ve had a bit too much wine tonight.”
Calvin snorted.
“Yeah, probably.” He sighed heavily through his nose. “I just - Uncle Greg did right by you. Just... just so you know.”
Sherlock reached behind him for the pile of photographs, sifting through them by feel and memory until he found the one he sought.
“Here,” he said, pulling the picture from the pile and handing it to Calvin. “Have you ever seen this one?”
“No,” Calvin murmured, staring blearily at the picture. It had been taken over two decades before, back when Calvin was only a few months old.
“He loved to hold you when you were a baby,” Sherlock said softly. “You were his whole world. He adored you.”
Calvin whimpered softly and quickly stifled it. He brushed a thumb across the picture - Lestrade, his gaze fixed on a point just above the photographer’s shoulder, positively beaming with joy as he cradled Calvin in his arms.
“He would stop at Baker Street sometimes,” Sherlock continued, still in that same undertone, “on his lunch break. Sometimes to bring me a cold case, or to check in on whatever I was working on for the Yard at the time. It was always a ruse. He came to see you.”
Calvin gave a small, wet laugh, and Sherlock hugged him closer.
"Papa took that picture. You were six months old.”
“Can I -?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Keep it. He would want - I want - nothing less.” He pressed his lips to Calvin’s forehead, and then whispered, “Tonight’s news would have made him quite pleased.”
“Yeah,” Calvin muttered brokenly, and the unspoken words - I wish he could be here to see - sat heavily between them as the tears began anew.
John joined them not long after, whispering, “Oh, my boys,” as he sat next to Calvin on the step. He wrapped one arm around Calvin’s trembling frame and used the other to draw Sherlock closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead and whispering, “I know. I know.”
“I don’t know where I’d be without you,” Sherlock whispered later, when Calvin had fallen asleep against his shoulder and all of their tears had dried. His face felt tight, stretched taut across his bones, and his voice was raw. He lifted a hand to John’s face, cupping it. John turned his head to kiss the palm of Sherlock’s hand and then took it in his free hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Neither do I,” John agreed, his hand tightening around Sherlock’s. And then he said, “Thank you.”
“Whatever for?”
“For this life,” John murmured. He tightened his arm around Calvin. “But mostly for him. Our boy.”
“Our boy,” Sherlock said in agreement, and then dipped his head to brush his lips across John’s. “Our wonderful boy.”
-------------
Previous Story: "Sunrise, Sunset"
-------------
Final Notes:
And, with that, I am considering this the chronological end of the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse. Thanks again to Canon, my fantastic partner-in-crime, without whom many of these stories would not have been possible. It’s been an absolute pleasure writing with you, my dear!
The photograph mentioned in the last scene is actually based on a piece of art basaltgrrl created for us, which in turn was based on a scene from “You’ll Love Tomorrow.” Many, many thanks, my friend.
Finally, thanks to everyone who stuck with this over the past year, and thanks for all your feedback. It’s been a joy, and we are ever so thankful to all of you.
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, OMC
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Word Count: c. 3,200
Warnings: Angst and fluff. Pretty much in that order.
Spoilers: None
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: This Christmas is different.
Notes: I believe there was a little bit of confusion on the previous fic, so many apologies for my convoluted author’s note! I realize it was a bit rambly. This is the final part of the WC ‘verse. Title comes from this song. A timeline for the series can be found here. More notes are at the end.
Four o’clock, Skye always said, was a dreadful time of day. The doldrums of the afternoon, he’d bemoan, when the sun sat heavy in the sky, full and golden, neither rising nor setting. The air would be too still; thick with melancholy. It was as though everything had been suspended in time, and there was nothing to do but wait.
Cal was inclined to agree on this particular afternoon, made all the more miserable by the fact that the holiday traffic was moving at a speed just a tick above standstill. He had hoped to leave earlier in the day, but thought it best not to push his luck at his new job. As it was, he had ducked out of work two hours early in order to make the journey to his parents’ cottage in the South Downs.
Normally, he looked forward to Christmas, his enthusiasm for the holiday as strong now as it had been when he was six, seven, eight years old. But this was the first time that they would number three rather than four, and he found he did not greet the impending visit with as much enthusiasm as he had in previous years. His apprehension was made all the more acute by the stalled traffic. With no task to focus his mind on, his thoughts kept straying to the similar drive he had made not four months ago, racing home on this very road only to find he hadn’t made it in time to say goodbye to his godfather.
The cottage looked much the same when he finally arrived early in the evening, and Cal found this disconcerting. It was pristine white when seen from the head of the drive, a speck of brilliance set amidst the dark of the wood. Up close, the toll of the years showed on the whitewashed walls; the paint was cracked and peeling in some places and worn away completely in others. But it was superficial damage--the cottage was steady and unyielding, its walls and foundation fortified by Uncle Greg and Papa when the small family made their move all those years ago.
Cal had expected the cottage to look different somehow, though it had been mere months since he last set eyes on it. He had, absurdly, thought to find some physical manifestation of the loss they all felt so keenly. But he stepped into the foyer to find everything in its rightful place--even Toby, who gave a quiet woof in greeting before settling his head between his paws again and resuming his nap on the floor.
The cottage had been built in the middle of a small wood, what Uncle Greg sometimes mused was probably the only bit of isolation left on their island country. There were fields beyond the tree line where Dad kept his hives and his work, but for Uncle Greg the twilight of his life had been spent here, in the cottage among the yew trees.
And that was where he rested now, in the shadow of the largest tree on the property. Part of him, at least--a smattering of his ashes sprinkled next to a marble stone that bore his name. The rest of his remains were in London with Jack. Papa had seen to all of that with his usual calm efficiency, even in the face of such loss. Dad, weak with grief in the days following Uncle Greg’s death, had retained just enough sense of himself to make it through the day and comfort Cal. He had been in no shape to plan Uncle Greg’s burial and, when the day came, couldn’t bring himself to follow Greg’s remains to London.
Cal couldn’t blame him, as he had yet to even visit the grave in his own backyard. But that was where Papa was now, he saw through the kitchen window, and so, with a bracing sigh, Cal stepped out onto the back porch and made for the ancient yew.
Papa was crouched low over Uncle Greg’s grave, hand outstretched, palm resting flat on the cool stone. Cal paused some paces away. His father’s eyes were closed, his head bowed so low that his chin nearly met his chest. After some moments he drew a deep sigh through his nose and blinked open his eyes. He pressed his hands to his thighs and pushed himself to his feet with a groan; at that point, Cal took a few deliberate steps forward, the packed snow giving way beneath his feet and announcing his presence.
“People call the yew the Tree of Death,” he said as he approached. “‘Cos many parts of the tree are poisonous. Fitting name, yeah?”
Papa turned, and the grief dissipated from his face as he set eyes on Cal. He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and opened his arms.
“You sound like your dad,” he muttered fondly, embracing his son. “It’s good to see you so soon, Cally. We weren’t expecting you until tonight.”
“I managed to get off of work early,” Cal said, returning his father’s firm hug. When they broke apart, he found his gaze straying to the small stone. “Does Dad ever come out here?”
Papa let out a soft huff of breath.
“No. You know how he is. The body is a vessel. Whatever Uncle Greg is - was - isn’t here anymore, not for him. Remains are nothing but bone and ash. He spends his time with Greg’s books; his journals. Even Toby, though God knows how that dog’s managed to live as long as he has.”
Cal snorted, remembering the puppy that had greeted him so enthusiastically as a child. They had grown up together; raised one another, Uncle Greg had sometimes liked to joke.
Papa touched his shoulder briefly and added, “I’ll see you back at the house. Take your time.”
----
Sherlock came home smelling of earth and mint, and answered John’s questioning glance with, “The shape of a bird’s beak will correspond directly to its diet in the wild, did you know?”
He set his boots by the door and gave Toby a pat on the head in greeting. John blinked at him, processing his words, and then snorted.
“I know, to you, that means something,” he said as he returned to chopping vegetables, “but that doesn’t really answer why you rushed out of here halfway through lunch.”
Sherlock paused in the kitchen doorway, looking suddenly uneasy.
“Ah,” he said. “I see. That was... an oversight on my part. Forgive me, John, but I had an idea that needed immediate attention. I wanted to finish my latest experiment prior to Calvin’s visit, so I would not have anything else commanding my attention for the weekend.”
“Do I look angry to you?” John glanced up, and flashed him a grin. “It’s good to know some things don’t change, and I wouldn’t have you any other way, you prat.”
Sherlock relaxed and smiled. John arched a questioning eyebrow at him.
“Well? Did you finish it?”
“Hmm? Oh, nearly. I’ll need to use the kettle later.”
Sherlock came to stand by John, shifting his weight so they were pressed together, hips to elbows to shoulders. He brushed his chilled fingers over John’s warm skin, skimming the peaks and valleys of his heavily-veined hand.
“When did this happen?” he murmured.
“When we weren’t looking,” John replied, and then craned his neck for a kiss that was readily given. “I love you.”
Sherlock pulled him close, and whispered his reply across John’s brow.
“I love you, too, John.”
----
Cal came back to the cottage to find that Dad had returned, and that he and Papa were locked in their usual battle for kitchen space.
“I just need -”
“No, Sherlock, do you remember what happened the last time you tried to boil cow eyes? We couldn’t get the smell out for weeks.”
“And, presumably, I have learned from that failed experiment, or I would not be attempting it again. Honestly, John, I’m a scientist. I -”
“I swear to God, Sherlock, you make one more move toward that kettle and you’re sleeping with Toby tonight!”
“How do you two manage when I’m away?” Cal interrupted his bickering parents. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching the two men in amusement. Dad whirled at the sound of his voice, his face melting from irritation to pleasure.
“Calvin,” he said in surprise, crossing the distance between them in two quick strides and delivering a tight hug that rivaled Papa’s. “John didn’t say -”
“I wanted him to surprise you,” Papa said with a soft smile. To Cal, he said, “He’s been looking forward to this visit for ages. Was up at dawn to clean, can you imagine? When was the last time you saw Dad clean anything, eh?”
Dad released Cal and glared at his husband; Papa smirked and turned back to dinner preparations.
They sat down to eat less than an hour later, and for most of the meal Cal was treated to an extensive list of Dad’s experiments and Toby’s latest antics. He was grateful for this reprieve, in all honesty. He never had been one for talking about himself, and tonight especially he was bringing news he wasn’t sure his parents would receive well. But, inevitably, the conversation circled back around to him.
“Cal,” Papa said at last, steering them away from discussion of Dad’s beehives, “you’ve been awfully quiet tonight. What’ve you been up to lately? Anything new since we last spoke?”
“Well, uh, I actually have some news.” Cal smoothed his clammy hands on his trousers and then reached for his glass of wine, downing large one gulp as he felt two pairs of curious eyes land on him. “I - well, I’m going to, er, be published. It’s nothing big or anything, just a couple of stories I wrote last year, but - uh - yeah. I submitted them to this paper and, well...”
He trailed off as he ran out of air, but Papa was already leaping in to fill the gap.
“Cal, that’s wonderful!” He reached across the table and squeezed Cal’s wrist. Cal gave him a tentative smile and then chanced a glance at Dad. His eyes were shining, Cal noticed with a twinge, and a small smile graced his lips. He raised his glass to Cal, nodding in approval, and Cal let out a breath of relief.
“Well, that’s not all,” Cal said quickly, knowing that he needed to say this now or he never would have the nerve to get it out. “I - that is, we -” He hesitated, and then said in a rush, “Skye and I are moving in together. This June. We’ve found a flat and everything. It’s - well, it’s near Baker Street, actually.”
This time, it was Dad who broke the silence.
“Congratulations, Cal,” he said quietly.
“I - really?”
“Yes, you ridiculous child,” Papa said fondly. “We like Skye. Right, Sherlock?”
“He’s very bright.”
“There you have it. A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one,” Papa said with a barely-restrained eye roll at his husband. Dad made a face at him in return, and Cal laughed.
----
Calvin assisted with the after-dinner cleanup while Dad disappeared down the darkened hallway that led out from the kitchen.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Off brooding, I expect,” Papa said, and though this wasn’t an unusual occurrence for Dad, the smile Papa gave Cal was sad. He felt his heart fall a fraction.
“Not taking it well?”
Papa shrugged. “He’s dealing with it as well as can be expected. But this is Dad, after all. Losing someone close to you is always hard, and he’s never viewed the world in quite the same way as the rest of us. So I think for him it’s almost twice the struggle, sometimes.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Where do you think?” Papa answered gently. He nodded at the wall, beyond which sat the porch and the rest of the property. “He’s communing with the stars.”
-----
Castor and Pollux were sitting low on the eastern horizon that night. The rest of the constellation Gemini spread out from those two bright stars, filling most of the visible sky between the bare branches of the trees. The sun had disappeared hours before, and so Sherlock conducted his work by artificial light. He was sorting through a pile of photographs and scraps of paper, all of which had been collected from Lestrade’s desk. He had not been compelled, until this week, to even so much as enter Lestrade’s old room, and so these items had gone untouched for months.
“Pa said you’d be out here.”
Sherlock didn’t glance up from his work as the door behind him slid open and familiar steps padded over to him.
“Calvin, you know how I dislike pointless prefaces to conversations.”
“Then I’ll be direct.” Calvin finished fastening his jacket and then sat down next to Sherlock on the step. He took one of the photographs from his father’s hand. “These were his?”
“Yes.”
Calvin offered the picture only a cursory glance and then handed it back to Sherlock. It had been from his seventh birthday, and featured not only Lestrade but Liam Dimmock as well.
Happier times.
Sherlock shook the thought from his mind as he filed the photograph away, tucking it into place in the album he was compiling. Move on, John had said, but how was he expected to do so when so much of his world had been shattered; when its very foundation had been ripped from him? It had hardly been unexpected, and yet -
“I didn’t want to come back for Christmas,” Calvin said suddenly, tearing Sherlock from his thoughts.
“Why?” he blurted, startled.
“Because he isn’t here.” Calvin kept his eyes fixed on the pile of photographs that sat on the step between them, and he reached out hesitant fingers to touch them. A moment later, he was sifting through them, though Sherlock privately suspected that they were an excuse for Calvin not to have to look him in the eye.
“Calvin -” Sherlock started, and then stopped, for he truly could not fathom how to continue. He longed, sometimes, in the darkest days following Lestrade’s death, for Calvin-the-child; his beautiful baby boy, who loved him without question and knew him only as dad. Not Sherlock or Freak or Holmes or Son. Sherlock was dad, to one person on this planet and only one, and he treasured it in ways he never knew he was capable of, holding it close inside his chest and not daring to let it go. He missed that child, in his most selfish moments, one who could not process such grief and therefore didn’t need the comfort Sherlock had trouble providing.
But Calvin, as always, was capable of reading him in ways lost to even John, and in the silence he read the words that Sherlock wanted to say. He set aside the photograph he had been looking at and lifted red-rimmed eyes to Sherlock’s.
And then suddenly they were reaching for one another, bridging the gulf of memories that sat between them.
“I miss him so much it hurts, sometimes,” Calvin mumbled into Sherlock’s coat.
“I know.” Sherlock tightened his hold on Calvin. “He cared for you. Deeply. And I -”
His voice cracked, and failed him for a moment. He pushed aside the photographs that kept them apart and pulled Calvin closer, holding him to his chest in a way he hadn’t since Calvin had been a child. And then the words tumbled from his mouth, unstoppable now that he had started.
“You weren’t a replacement, Cal. Not for what he - we - had lost. You were - are - always your own person. He cared because you were his godson, and I -”
Sherlock swallowed hard, breathing for a moment the smell of Calvin’s apple-scented shampoo, “- and I love you. Very much. And I always shall.”
Calvin shuddered in his arms for a few minutes more, his tears soaking through Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock brushed a thumb across his tear-stained cheek, wiping away the fluid, and eventually Calvin composed himself enough to swipe the back of his hand across his eyes. He remained tucked against Sherlock’s side, however, his head resting against his father’s chest, his eyes fixed blankly on the horizon.
“You’re a good dad,” he whispered finally, his voice rough around the edges. Sherlock felt him swallow hard, and then Calvin added, “You always were. I know... I know you doubted it.”
Sherlock tensed, and then forced himself to relax so that Calvin wouldn’t feel his unease.
“Who said that?”
“No one,” Calvin said. “I can tell. I can always tell. But... But I couldn’t have asked for better parents. You and Papa both. I just - “
“Calvin,” Sherlock said gently, carding his fingers through Calvin’s hair, “I think you’ve had a bit too much wine tonight.”
Calvin snorted.
“Yeah, probably.” He sighed heavily through his nose. “I just - Uncle Greg did right by you. Just... just so you know.”
Sherlock reached behind him for the pile of photographs, sifting through them by feel and memory until he found the one he sought.
“Here,” he said, pulling the picture from the pile and handing it to Calvin. “Have you ever seen this one?”
“No,” Calvin murmured, staring blearily at the picture. It had been taken over two decades before, back when Calvin was only a few months old.
“He loved to hold you when you were a baby,” Sherlock said softly. “You were his whole world. He adored you.”
Calvin whimpered softly and quickly stifled it. He brushed a thumb across the picture - Lestrade, his gaze fixed on a point just above the photographer’s shoulder, positively beaming with joy as he cradled Calvin in his arms.
“He would stop at Baker Street sometimes,” Sherlock continued, still in that same undertone, “on his lunch break. Sometimes to bring me a cold case, or to check in on whatever I was working on for the Yard at the time. It was always a ruse. He came to see you.”
Calvin gave a small, wet laugh, and Sherlock hugged him closer.
"Papa took that picture. You were six months old.”
“Can I -?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Keep it. He would want - I want - nothing less.” He pressed his lips to Calvin’s forehead, and then whispered, “Tonight’s news would have made him quite pleased.”
“Yeah,” Calvin muttered brokenly, and the unspoken words - I wish he could be here to see - sat heavily between them as the tears began anew.
John joined them not long after, whispering, “Oh, my boys,” as he sat next to Calvin on the step. He wrapped one arm around Calvin’s trembling frame and used the other to draw Sherlock closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead and whispering, “I know. I know.”
“I don’t know where I’d be without you,” Sherlock whispered later, when Calvin had fallen asleep against his shoulder and all of their tears had dried. His face felt tight, stretched taut across his bones, and his voice was raw. He lifted a hand to John’s face, cupping it. John turned his head to kiss the palm of Sherlock’s hand and then took it in his free hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Neither do I,” John agreed, his hand tightening around Sherlock’s. And then he said, “Thank you.”
“Whatever for?”
“For this life,” John murmured. He tightened his arm around Calvin. “But mostly for him. Our boy.”
“Our boy,” Sherlock said in agreement, and then dipped his head to brush his lips across John’s. “Our wonderful boy.”
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Previous Story: "Sunrise, Sunset"
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Final Notes:
And, with that, I am considering this the chronological end of the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse. Thanks again to Canon, my fantastic partner-in-crime, without whom many of these stories would not have been possible. It’s been an absolute pleasure writing with you, my dear!
The photograph mentioned in the last scene is actually based on a piece of art basaltgrrl created for us, which in turn was based on a scene from “You’ll Love Tomorrow.” Many, many thanks, my friend.
Finally, thanks to everyone who stuck with this over the past year, and thanks for all your feedback. It’s been a joy, and we are ever so thankful to all of you.