Fic: Absolution (1/3)
Title: “Absolution” (1/3)
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Ensemble
Pairings: Not specified
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Word Count: c. 15,000 total
Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of injuries, implied past drug use, kidfic, and embarrassing amounts of fluff.
Spoilers: Takes place post-Hiatus, and contains a minor spoiler for ACD’s “The Sign of Four.”
Beta: kim_j_8472
Summary: A year after Sherlock’s return from the dead and on the heels of a near-disastrous case, John discovers that his best friend isn’t done keeping secrets from him.
Notes: Written in response to this challenge, which gave the following prompt: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…
Please note all the tags before choosing to proceed. Many thanks to Kim for her beta skills and helpful medical tips. Further notes at the end of Part 1.
Kim also created a lovely photoset to go along with this story. Go check it out; it's gorgeous!
The air between them was thick.
John stared pointedly out the cab’s window, his hand clenched into a fist on his knee. Beside him, Sherlock was slouched in his seat, one leg bouncing in barely-concealed frustration and pent-up energy.
“You almost died, you realise,” John said tersely.
“I’m well aware,” Sherlock said distractedly.
“And?”
Sherlock let out a frustrated breath.
“And what, John?”
John’s thumb sought the ring on his left hand, which he rubbed in agitation.
“Doesn’t your life mean anything to you?” he asked finally, and meant, Don’t you know how much your life means to me?
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.
“The case remains unsolved. That’s the only thing that concerns me right now.”
“The only thing - You utter arse,” John snarled. “Do you have any idea -”
He broke off, but felt Sherlock turn to look at him.
“Do you have any idea what it would do to me if you died? Again?” John finished finally. The silence that followed was heavy, and John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as though the air around them had suddenly become charged. “Do you ever do anything but think about yourself? Fucking hell, Sherlock, I can’t go through that again! I can’t watch you die.”
Before Sherlock could reply, though, the cab was stopping just outside Baker Street. John paid the cabbie while Sherlock left the car, slamming the door with more force than was necessary. He was halfway up the steps when John finally entered the building, and didn’t bother to wait for John before unlocking the door to their flat.
John dashed up the stairs after him, adrenaline thrumming through his limbs -
- And slammed into Sherlock’s back.
“What the hell -”
Sherlock was frozen on the threshold of 221b, his hand still grasping the door handle and the door partway open. John, a sinking feeling in his stomach, nudged Sherlock the rest of the way into the flat and looked around.
“Ah, there they are,” Mycroft Holmes said calmly. He was standing by the fireplace. “Welcome back, gentlemen. I’m sorry about your case, Sherlock. I’m sure you’ll solve it eventually.”
John’s eyes flicked to the sofa. Greg Lestrade was sitting there, dressed in jeans and a faded pullover. He gave a weak wave in greeting, and John knew immediately that something was very wrong.
And so, apparently, did Sherlock.
“What’s going on?” Sherlock demanded. “What’s happened?”
Mycroft’s face turned grim. Lestrade got to his feet.
“He’s missing,” was all Mycroft said to Sherlock. The words meant nothing to John, but clearly Sherlock knew exactly what--and who--he was talking about.
“Missing,” Sherlock repeated, a hard edge to his voice. “And why, exactly, is he missing?”
Mycroft actually looked slightly uncomfortable, but he didn’t shrink away under his brother’s harsh gaze.
“He was doing some work for me in Norfolk this week. He failed to check in at the appointed time this morning.”
Sherlock blinked at him, as though he didn’t quite understand.
“Norfolk? What was he doing back in the country?”
“Work,” Mycroft repeated, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
“He was retired, Mycroft,” he said slowly, dangerously.
“Technically, yes, but -”
Sherlock’s eyes blazed.
“But what?” he asked in a low voice. “What did you do?”
Mycroft took a deep breath.
“Now and again, I require his expertise. It is unfortunate, I realise, but also unavoidable.”
John had never seen Sherlock look truly horrified before, but he was now, his face gone ashen and his eyes wide. And then his eyes narrowed, and he looked every bit the murderer that people sometimes accused him of being.
“He was raising a child,” Sherlock said, his voice rising with his temper. “He was raising a child on his own -”
“Yes, and whose fault was that?” Mycroft asked mildly.
The remark was as effective as a physical blow, and Sherlock took a step back. He paled first, and then an angry flush began to creep up his neck.
“You imbecile -” he hissed.
“Sherlock -”
“You lying piece of -”
“Sherlock.”
This time it was Lestrade who bellowed the name, and they all turned to look at him. He nodded to the kitchen.
There was a little girl standing in the doorway, no more than seven or eight. She was dressed in a light green jumper and blue pajama bottoms, and her waist-length brown hair was tied back in a sleep-mussed ponytail. Her face was puffy with sleep, but her eyes were wide and alert, and they were fixed on Sherlock.
“Ah,” Mycroft said. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and then looked at John. “Doctor Watson, this is my niece. Violet.”
“Niece,” John repeated. His eyes flicked to Sherlock, who appeared to be frozen to the spot, staring at the girl. “You mean -”
“She’s always been a quiet thing,” Mycroft went on, ignoring John’s words. “She gets that from her father, I suppose.”
Indeed, Violet hadn’t said a word, and she had come upon them so quietly that it made John wonder how much of their conversation she had overheard before Lestrade noticed her standing there. But Sherlock was far from quiet, and even when he wasn’t speaking managed to bang and clatter his way around the flat. It was a strange remark to make, not to mention completely wrong.
“Her other father, John,” Sherlock clarified before John could even think to ask. His words were absent, as he was still transfixed by Violet. “My ex-husband. Come here, Vi.”
The last sentence was soft, and spoken only to Violet. Sherlock sank into a crouch and held out a hand. Violet didn’t move.
“Daddy’s gone,” she said finally. Sherlock’s jaw tightened.
“I know,” he said. “But we’re going to get him back.”
Violet’s face started to crumple.
“What if you don’t?” she asked in a wavering voice.
Sherlock looked fierce.
“I will,” he said in a low voice. “I’m going to get him back.”
Violet finally pushed herself off the doorframe and took a stumbling step towards Sherlock. It seemed that was invitation enough for him, because he straightened and moved towards her, catching her just as her knees started to buckle. He swept her up into his arms, and she buried her face in his neck and started to sob. He paced over to the window, and John watched as Violet fisted tiny hands into Sherlock’s shirt, clinging to him. He murmured inaudible reassurances in her ear, a broad hand rubbing slow circles into her back.
John turned to the other two men.
“He has a daughter?” he hissed to Mycroft. “Why am I only finding out about this now?”
“It wasn’t exactly your business, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Not my - he’s my best friend, for Christ’s sake. How is that not a relevant thing for me to know?”
“It’s a touchy subject,” Lestrade said in an undertone. “The divorce wasn’t amicable, and they moved abroad. He only gets to see Violet a few times a year. He hates it.”
John felt his eyebrows rise. Not amicable, his arse. Maybe at the time, but he had seen the look on Sherlock’s face just now when he realised that something had happened to his ex-husband (for John could only assume that he was the missing man in question.) Sherlock had looked nothing short of terrified.
“They weren’t at the funeral,” he said, trying to fit this previously-unknown piece of Sherlock’s life into the puzzle that comprised his best friend.
But Lestrade shook his head.
“Yes, they were,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t see them.”
“Be fair, John. About how with it were you in the first place?” Lestrade pointed out. “Christ, even I didn’t notice them until Victor came up to say hello.”
Victor. John raked his memory, but he couldn’t remember Sherlock ever even mentioning an acquaintance by that name, let alone someone a good deal more intimate.
And then he thought back on the funeral, that foggy June morning that was already two years past. He remembered only bits and pieces of the day. Lestrade’s eulogy stood out, as did the mostly-empty church, its pews filled only with Sherlock’s closest friends and a few loyal clients.
He recalled then Lestrade talking to a man after the conclusion of the service, a man whose eyes were bruised from too many nights awake and whose mouth was lined with tension. He had been balancing a tearful little girl on his hip, a child whose brunette hair had been cropped to just below her chin and who was wearing a tasteful black and purple dress. John had noticed them only because of the girl, who was the only child at the service, and because Lestrade embraced them both warmly before they departed.
It must have been them.
Violet eventually calmed down, and when Sherlock had wiped the tears from her face he rejoined the group. He balanced the little girl easily on his hip, and Violet rested her head on his shoulder, clearly on the verge of falling asleep.
“Violet, this is Doctor Watson. Say hello,” Sherlock said calmly, all of his earlier anger set aside. Violet lifted her head to gaze at John out of bloodshot eyes, and then a shadow of a smile crossed her features before she buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder again. He raised an incredulous eyebrow at her. “Are you being shy?”
“Daddy reads me his stories,” she whispered. “I know them all.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade passed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Even Mycroft looked slightly amused.
“Your dad has good taste in stories,” John told her, ducking his head to meet her gaze and giving a smile when he caught her eye. “It’s nice to meet you, Violet.”
They chatted for a time about innocuous topics, Sherlock swaying absently. It was a movement John theorized was reflexive in all parents; the moment they had a weight settled on their hip, it triggered an automatic response to rock and soothe. It was effective, too. Within half an hour Violet had fallen asleep again, and Sherlock excused himself to put her back in his room.
Once Violet had been settled again in his bed, he came out into the main room and stared down his brother.
“Now, explain to me,” he said quietly, “how you lost her father.”
“Only temporarily,” Mycroft said. “I admit, how he came to be in London when he started out in Norfolk remains a mystery. But we now know where he is.”
“What? Where?” Sherlock demanded. “Mycroft.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade stepped in. Sherlock whirled around, looking startled, as though he had quite forgotten there were others in the room.
“What’s happened to Victor?” he asked.
“He’s alive, and we know where he is,” Lestrade said quickly, holding up a hand. “It’s just - we can’t get to him yet. He’s trapped.”
“What do you mean, trapped?”
“He’s in the basement of an abandoned warehouse about ten minutes from here,” Lestrade said. He glared pointedly at Mycroft. “God only knows what he was doing there in the first place, but I can tell you that foul play was involved in his being trapped. Someone set off a series of explosives and brought the whole building down while Victor was still in it, Sherlock. We can’t get to him. We’re trying to work our way through the rubble right now, but it’s slow-going.”
Sherlock stared at him for a beat, dumbfounded, and then turned to Mycroft.
“What the hell did you do?” he hissed. “Someone blew up a building just to try to kill him? What have you got him into now?”
“I can’t reveal the details of Mr Trevor’s mission,” Mycroft said calmly.
“The hell you can’t!” Sherlock snapped, but he turned back to Lestrade. Forcing calm into his voice, he asked, “How do you know he’s still alive?”
“We threaded an audio line through the rubble and a small hole in the ceiling of the basement. We can hear him breathing. He’s probably just been knocked unconscious. Half the basement collapsed as well, and we don’t know the extent of his injuries, but he’s still alive. When we wakes up, we’ll be able to communicate with him.”
Sherlock glanced between Lestrade and Mycroft.
“That’s it?” he asked finally. Mycroft inclined his head.
“Apologies, brother, but I can’t reveal anything more than that. His mission was a very delicate one. I’m taking a very big risk by even informing you of his predicament.”
“Predicament -” Sherlock sputtered. His face flushed red in anger. “If Violet is left with only one parent at the end of this, Mycroft, it’s on your head, and you can be assured that I will never forgive you for it.”
Mycroft’s mouth tightened, the only outward sign he gave that the words affected him.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “Victor’s actions helped ensure the safety of our citizens and the well-being of our government. That would make a potential sacrifice on his part more than worth it. You should know that only too well.”
Sherlock’s nostrils flared.
“I did,” he growled, “what I had to do in order to protect those closest to me. I had no choice but to fall.”
“I’m not implying that you did.” Mycroft’s eyes turned cold. “But the next time you take issue with Victor’s choice of career, let me remind you that you engaged the world’s most dangerous criminal mastermind for fun - and your daughter paid the price for it. She thought you were dead for a year, Sherlock, and I couldn’t tell her differently. Bear that in mind before you imply that Victor was being needlessly reckless. I rather think it’s the other way around.”
“Right, that’s enough,” Lestrade said firmly to Mycroft. He seized Sherlock by the elbow to keep him from going after his brother. “Get out, Mr Holmes.”
“Now,” John said when Mycroft didn’t move, “or I’ll throw you out myself.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Mycroft murmured to him, but he left anyway of his own accord, and under his own power. When he had gone, Lestrade took Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.
“We’re going to get Victor out of this,” he said firmly, “and we’ll bring him home to Violet. I promise, lad.”
Sherlock drew a deep, calming breath through his nose.
“I always knew there was a reason why you were her favourite uncle,” he said finally.
“I’d like to think I come out ahead of that git anyway just because I’m, well, nicer.” Lestrade gave his shoulder a squeeze and then dropped his hands.
Sherlock snorted and passed a hand over his face. Now that Mycroft was gone, his anger seemed to have melted away, only to be replaced by palpable concern. He also looked dazed and more than a little lost.
“I don’t have anything for her here,” Sherlock said after a moment spent gazing blankly at them both. “I never thought - she never visits here. It didn’t occur to me -”
“Mycroft made sure she brought enough from home for a lengthy stay. Her suitcase is in your wardrobe,” Lestrade said. He gave a small smile. “And I bought milk.”
Sherlock gave a weak chuckle.
“What do we do from here?” John asked. He looked at Lestrade. “You say you’ve got an audio line open to him.”
“Yeah, but he’s still out. And for God only knows how long. We don’t know the extent of his injuries.” Lestrade turned to Sherlock. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the Yard. I’ll call the moment we have something.”
“We’ll come with you,” Sherlock said, moving for his coat, but Lestrade grabbed his elbow to stop him.
“No,” he said firmly. “You need to stay here, with Violet. There’s nothing you can do from the Yard, and unless you know how to make rubble disappear, there’s nothing you can do at the warehouse, either.”
“Can you let us know when he wakes up, at least?” John stepped in, sensing from the way that Sherlock’s jaw clenched that he was on the verge of releasing a brand-new tirade on Lestrade.
“You’ll be my first call,” Lestrade said to Sherlock, who nodded his thanks. “Get some sleep. We’ll be in touch.”
The silence that settled on the flat in the wake of Lestrade’s departure was as thick as the one that filled the cab on their way home earlier that night. This time, however, the air was heavy not with anger, but with everything that went--and had gone--unsaid.
“So,” John said finally, unable to bear it any longer. “His name is Victor.”
Sherlock stared at him for a long minute, his face unreadable. Then, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open. He slid out a picture that had been tucked into one of the pockets and handed it wordlessly to John.
The child John recognised instantly, for even though she was a baby in the image, her cerulean eyes and sharp nose were unmistakable. The man holding Violet was gazing down at her while he fed her a bottle, and she was looking back at him in wide-eyed wonder. He was as different from Sherlock in appearance as one could get. Classically handsome, he had a strong jaw and symmetrical features, and his eyes were an unassuming shade of blue. His brown hair had been swept off his forehead, and a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. The deep bruises under his eyes and questionable stains on his t-shirt marked him as a new parent, while the joy in his smile marked him as the father of the baby he was holding.
“Victor Trevor,” Sherlock said after a moment. John handed the picture back to him, and he tucked it away again. “We met at university. I was seventeen, and at the time he was the most brilliant man I’d ever met. Still is, in fact.”
He went into the kitchen, where he kept a stash of cigarettes in the drawer that contained his microscope slides. John grabbed a beer while Sherlock lit his cigarette, and they stood there in silence for a time. Sherlock cracked open the tiny window so that the smell wouldn’t disturb Violet, and John privately decided that Mycroft didn’t need to know about this particular slip-up.
“What’s he do?”
“Officially? He’s a physicist, and he worked for an aerospace company while we were still together.”
“In addition to working for Mycroft,” John said after a while. Sherlock’s face darkened.
“Yes,” he said bitterly. “That was a job he worked on the side. Mycroft found him to be highly competent and very useful for a variety of missions. Victor used to travel all around the world on Mycroft’s orders. But he cut back on that work when Violet was born, and when we... separated, he was supposed to have given it up altogether.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asked quietly. “A divorce is a hard thing, I get that, but it’s not something to be ashamed of -”
“I’m not ashamed,” Sherlock said sharply. “Not of them. Never of them.”
“But?”
Sherlock sighed and took a deep pull on his cigarette.
“Lestrade knows about us because I started working for the Yard prior to the divorce. His whole team knows, for that matter, as do Molly and Angelo. My association with Mrs Hudson predates Violet, so she knows as well. But you were the one person who didn’t know simply because of when we met. It was... refreshing.”
John nodded to himself. He could understand that, he supposed, and Sherlock was a private man to begin with. He took a long swallow of beer, and then asked, “How often do you get to see her?”
Sherlock shrugged, but his face shuttered. “Victor visits the country three times a year. He leaves Violet with my mother, and I usually spend a few days at the estate with her.”
John gave a huff of laughter.
“I saw, but I didn’t observe,” he muttered. “I always wondered why you took so many weekend trips to that house when you hate the place so much. And the Christmas dinners...”
Sherlock gave a quick, wry smile.
“I only tolerate those because Violet will be there.”
“So you haven’t seen Victor in a while.”
Sherlock quickly sobered, and he shook his head.
“No. Not since my return.”
“Did he know you were alive?” John asked. He tried to keep the warning out of his tone, but his hand tightened around his beer and Sherlock undoubtedly noticed.
“No,” Sherlock said, and John breathed a silent, selfish sigh of relief. “But only because I didn’t want to draw the attention of Moriarty’s men to them. Moriarty was effective, but short sighted. He only targeted people in my life who were also close enough in proximity to make a point. It didn’t occur to him that the most important person in my life was thousands of miles away. Or he simply didn’t care; I’m not sure.”
“It must be difficult,” John said cautiously, “to have a child with someone you no longer get along with.”
Sherlock gave him a blank look, and then his brows furrowed.
“I assure you, John, nothing could be further from the truth,” he said, sounding almost puzzled. “Victor and I - well, there’s no one on this planet I trust more. Oh, don’t give me that look, I trust you as well. It’s just different, with Victor. You have Mary, surely you understand the difference. And... well.”
Sherlock dropped his eyes to his cigarette, which had largely burned away. He stubbed it out on the edge of the sink before disposing of it.
“I miss him terribly,” he said finally, quietly. “I try not to think about it, because if I’m not careful I’m afraid it will consume me.”
“Does he know?” John asked softly.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed, as though the question confused him. “Of course. He feels the same.”
John couldn’t help himself.
“Then why -”
Sherlock shook his head.
“It wasn’t enough,” he said simply. “We had our share of problems, John, and there were gulfs between us that simply couldn’t be bridged. For some things, love wasn’t enough.”
Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat. He straightened, ran a hand through his hair, and cracked his neck.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’m going to get some sleep before Violet wakes up at six wanting breakfast. You’re staying here?”
“Mary’s working late tonight; figured I would,” John said. He had a habit of staying at Baker Street whenever Mary was working or out of town. He cracked a tentative smile. “Besides, there’s no way I’m passing up a chance to see you babysit.”
----
Sherlock slept on the sofa that night while Violet slumbered in his room. He was pulled out of sleep every hour due to his restless thoughts and the worry that ate away at his insides, and finally gave up on further sleep at four. He lay on the sofa, an arm over his eyes, listening to the flat creak and pop around him.
He shouldn’t have felt so thrown by the night’s revelations. Of course Victor wouldn’t have given up his work; it was as much his life as Sherlock’s consulting was his own. It was foolish to think he could set it aside so easily.
But it had always been a point of contention between them. Sherlock’s consulting, while dangerous at times, was relatively harmless when compared to Victor’s job. The danger was of his own making. Victor’s work, on the other hand, involved secret missions to far corners of the globe or undercover work that lasted for weeks at a time. He was actively killing and trying not to be killed in return, and more than once a price had been put on his head. Before Moriarty, no one had ever actually sought Sherlock out personally and tried to do him harm. But someone, it seemed, was always after Victor.
That was bad enough. But it could quickly spiral, and if it did, Violet was directly in the line of fire.
It must be difficult to have a child with someone you no longer get along with.
On the eve of Sherlock’s return to England, his brother had sent a plane for Victor and Violet, spiriting them away on a moment’s notice to the Holmes family estate.
It was the first time he and Victor had been in the same room since Violet’s fifth birthday two years prior. Victor, seemingly, hadn’t aged a day. Sherlock knew that he had gained five years on his face in just one. And Violet - oh, she had been much too big.
Victor had kissed him, punched him, and hugged him, in precisely that order. Violet had sobbed and laughed and sobbed some more, and Sherlock didn’t think he was ever going to be able to let her go. But he had, three days later. He said goodbye to them in the shadowed foyer of his childhood home, and he didn’t see Violet again until Christmas.
And Victor hadn’t spoken to him since that day, much less agreed to be in the same room with him. Their communication was limited to emails, and the occasional message from Mycroft. Their reunion that hot summer weekend had been tinged with unreality, and for a brief moment it was as though Violet was two again, and their marriage was whole. But then Victor had seen the track marks on his arms, evidence of a year that had been less than kind to Sherlock, and the flickering hope that they might be able to rebuild again was snuffed out.
Victor was the best thing ever to happen to him. But all the good times couldn’t make up for the bad, and sometimes love just wasn’t enough.
Sherlock heard his bedroom door creak open, and then the soft slap of tiny bare feet on the lino in the kitchen. Violet paused by the sofa.
“Dad?” she asked tentatively, her voice so soft it was nearly inaudible. She had never come up with two distinct names that she used to refer to her parents. The parent who was present was always Dad, and the absent parent-or the one she was referring to-tended to be Daddy.
“I’m awake,” he murmured, lifting his arm off his eyes. “What is it, Violet?”
He didn’t need an answer and didn’t expect one. The question was invitation enough, and Violet crawled up onto the sofa, settling down on the thin strip of cushion that was left when Sherlock slid over to make room. He pulled the blanket off his legs and wrapped it around Violet instead, and she cuddled up against him. With her head on his chest, her feet reached almost down to his knees.
She hadn’t been this tall at Christmas.
“Do you think Daddy’s scared?” Violet asked softly. Sherlock snorted.
“Your father is the bravest man I know,” he said with sincerity. Victor was also the most infuriating, but Sherlock suspected that Violet didn’t need to know that right now. “What are you doing awake?”
“I can’t sleep,” Violet whispered, looking up at him.
“Ah. Well, neither can I.” Sherlock rubbed her back absently, and she settled her head on his shoulder again.
“Daddy usually reads me a story when I can’t sleep.”
“I don’t have any stories here.”
Violet began to pick at a loose thread on his shirt.
“He reads me Doctor Watson’s stories. My favorite is the case of the Aluminum Crutch.”
“He does not.”
Violet nodded vigorously.
“He does. And did you really meet a headless ghost? Daddy says ghosts aren’t real.”
“They aren’t,” Sherlock said firmly. “Doctor Watson simply enjoys going on flights of fancy.”
“What’re those?”
“Never mind.” Sherlock ran a hand through Violet’s hair. He had thought she’d been exaggerating earlier when she said she knew all of John’s stories, but evidently that was not the case.
It was one more thing to take up with Victor once they got him out of this sorry mess, right after Sherlock took him to task for going on another one of Mycroft’s missions and getting himself blown up.
That is, if they ever got Victor out of this mess.
“Violet,” Sherlock said, trying to shake the thought from his mind, “did your dad ever tell you the story about the comic book murders?”
She lifted her head to look at him, eyes wide with excitement.
“No,” she said. “That sounds cool.”
Sherlock laughed, the first time he had managed to do so this evening, and pulled her against his chest again.
She fell asleep halfway through the story. Sherlock followed not long after, and would probably have slept for half the morning if not for the text from Lestrade that woke him at seven.
He’s waking up.
-----
Lestrade had set up a makeshift command center in one of the conference rooms at the Yard. A computer and audio equipment had been brought in, and his team had been using them to monitor both the rescue efforts and Victor’s condition.
“They’re still hours away from reaching him,” Lestrade said quietly, bringing John and Sherlock up to speed while the rest of his team bustled around them. “And before you ask, no, we haven’t got any leads on who might have done this. Though I suspect that’s a result of your brother’s meddling, Sherlock. He’s been stonewalling our investigation at every turn. But finding out who did this won’t make that rubble move any quicker, so I’m inclined to let it go for the moment.”
Sherlock shot a glance to the other side of the room, where Mycroft was milling in a corner.
“Did you call him here?”
Lestrade looked offended.
“God, no,” he said emphatically. “Don’t ask me how he found out; he just showed up here.”
“Sounds like him,” John muttered. “Has Victor said anything yet?”
Lestrade shook his head.
“Nothing of importance. He’s still very groggy; all we’ve managed are a few hellos. I don’t think his situation has quite registered with him yet. I thought a familiar voice might help.”
He looked pointedly at Sherlock, who glanced away uneasily.
“We don’t talk,” he said simply.
“I know,” Lestrade said gently. “I don’t think he’ll care about that at the moment, do you?”
“You’d be surprised how long that man can hold a grudge.”
“Sir!” Donovan called suddenly. The noise in the room ceased altogether, and Lestrade hurried back over to her side. She had been manning the microphone, and was the first person to make contact with Victor earlier. “I think he’s - hello?”
There was a pause, and then -
“Who’s there?”
Everyone looked at Sherlock. He shifted, for the first time in his life uncomfortable with the attention suddenly being on him.
“Victor,” he said quietly. “It’s me.”
There was silence on the other end for half a minute. It felt like an eternity.
“Sherlock,” Victor said finally. “What’s going on?”
Sherlock took a moment just for breathing. It had been so long since he’d heard Victor’s voice. Victor always dropped Violet off with Sherlock’s mother on their thrice-yearly trips to England and disappeared for the weekend so Sherlock could have some uninterrupted time with his daughter--and so that Victor wouldn’t have to be in the same room with him. They didn’t even speak by phone anymore, confining their conversations to brisk emails that talked only about Violet and said nothing about their own lives.
“It’s... complicated,” he said at last. “What do you remember?”
“Not much,” Victor said, but his voice was suddenly guarded. Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath.
“This is no time to be keeping my brother’s secrets,” he said irritably. “What were you doing in there? What happened?”
“It’s all right, Mr Trevor,” Mycroft said, stepping in. Sherlock wanted to punch him. “You can divulge that much.”
“There isn’t much to say,” Victor admitted. “I thought I heard a sound in the basement of this building, so I went to investigate. The next thing I know, I’m talking to - well. Whoever you all are. What the hell is going on?”
“You’re trapped in the basement of a warehouse,” Sherlock told him. “I don’t know why you were there in the first place, but when you went into the basement, someone set off a series of explosives that brought the entire building down on top of you. There are people working to get to you, but it’s going to take a while. You’re talking to Lestrade’s team. We’re at the Yard.”
Victor’s response was a long time in coming.
“I see,” he said slowly. “So... someone blew up this building?”
“Just to get to you, yes.”
“Mr Trevor, how are you feeling?” John stepped in. His brow had furrowed suddenly, and there was an apprehensive edge to his voice.
Everyone turned to look at him. Sherlock scowled.
“This is hardly the time for you to show off your skills,” he hissed. “And it’s a waste of air -”
“Mr Trevor, this is John Watson,” John said, talking over Sherlock and cutting him off. “I’m a physician. I need to know how you’re feeling right now.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Head hurts like a bitch,” Victor said finally. “I think I got hit with something.”
“I’m not surprised.” John folded his arms across his chest. “But that’s not all.”
“No,” Victor said at length. “There’s also nausea, dizziness, and a ringing in my ears. And I don’t entirely remember what happened immediately before the explosion.”
“You’re also experiencing some mild confusion, from what I can tell.” John looked at the assembled team. “It sounds like he’s got a concussion, and a pretty bad one, too. Which means that we can’t let him fall asleep.”
Lestrade cursed quietly, and Sherlock felt a knot form in his chest.
“Did you hear that, Victor?” Lestrade asked finally.
“I did.”
“Right, then, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re all going to take shifts, every couple of hours, until we get you out of there. People, I want you to keep him awake. That means you talk, you keep him engaged, and you don’t let him fall asleep. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the rest of his team chorused.
“Good. And as for you, Victor, you are not allowed to fall asleep. Is that understood?”
There was a note of amusement in Victor’s voice when he answered.
“Understood, Greg.”
“Good. Donovan, you’ve got the first shift. Everyone else, back to work.”
Mycroft made his farewells out in the corridor and left the Yard. Lestrade turned to John.
“I can’t really spare many people for this,” he said quietly. “I’ll have Donovan give it a go, and then Ricky and Anderson. Can you give us a hand? Fill in in case things need to be shuffled around; take a shift here and there.”
“Of course,” John said, and Lestrade nodded his thanks.
“Now, Sherlock -”
“I need to be at Baker Street,” Sherlock said quietly, before Lestrade could order him away. “I know. You’ll call.”
Lestrade nodded.
“The moment we have anything.”
----
Part 2
----
Further Notes: Victor Trevor is a character from ACD canon who appears in “The Adventure of the ‘Gloria Scott.’” While this is not the same VT who has appeared in my other fics, he is a variation on a common theme, so there are similarities that carry over from fic to fic. Needless to say, this VT storyline isn’t related to any other one I’ve written, but if you prefer to indulge in some fanfic-canon bending in order to slot all the stories together, by all means.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Ensemble
Pairings: Not specified
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Word Count: c. 15,000 total
Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of injuries, implied past drug use, kidfic, and embarrassing amounts of fluff.
Spoilers: Takes place post-Hiatus, and contains a minor spoiler for ACD’s “The Sign of Four.”
Beta: kim_j_8472
Summary: A year after Sherlock’s return from the dead and on the heels of a near-disastrous case, John discovers that his best friend isn’t done keeping secrets from him.
Notes: Written in response to this challenge, which gave the following prompt: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…
Please note all the tags before choosing to proceed. Many thanks to Kim for her beta skills and helpful medical tips. Further notes at the end of Part 1.
Kim also created a lovely photoset to go along with this story. Go check it out; it's gorgeous!
The air between them was thick.
John stared pointedly out the cab’s window, his hand clenched into a fist on his knee. Beside him, Sherlock was slouched in his seat, one leg bouncing in barely-concealed frustration and pent-up energy.
“You almost died, you realise,” John said tersely.
“I’m well aware,” Sherlock said distractedly.
“And?”
Sherlock let out a frustrated breath.
“And what, John?”
John’s thumb sought the ring on his left hand, which he rubbed in agitation.
“Doesn’t your life mean anything to you?” he asked finally, and meant, Don’t you know how much your life means to me?
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.
“The case remains unsolved. That’s the only thing that concerns me right now.”
“The only thing - You utter arse,” John snarled. “Do you have any idea -”
He broke off, but felt Sherlock turn to look at him.
“Do you have any idea what it would do to me if you died? Again?” John finished finally. The silence that followed was heavy, and John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as though the air around them had suddenly become charged. “Do you ever do anything but think about yourself? Fucking hell, Sherlock, I can’t go through that again! I can’t watch you die.”
Before Sherlock could reply, though, the cab was stopping just outside Baker Street. John paid the cabbie while Sherlock left the car, slamming the door with more force than was necessary. He was halfway up the steps when John finally entered the building, and didn’t bother to wait for John before unlocking the door to their flat.
John dashed up the stairs after him, adrenaline thrumming through his limbs -
- And slammed into Sherlock’s back.
“What the hell -”
Sherlock was frozen on the threshold of 221b, his hand still grasping the door handle and the door partway open. John, a sinking feeling in his stomach, nudged Sherlock the rest of the way into the flat and looked around.
“Ah, there they are,” Mycroft Holmes said calmly. He was standing by the fireplace. “Welcome back, gentlemen. I’m sorry about your case, Sherlock. I’m sure you’ll solve it eventually.”
John’s eyes flicked to the sofa. Greg Lestrade was sitting there, dressed in jeans and a faded pullover. He gave a weak wave in greeting, and John knew immediately that something was very wrong.
And so, apparently, did Sherlock.
“What’s going on?” Sherlock demanded. “What’s happened?”
Mycroft’s face turned grim. Lestrade got to his feet.
“He’s missing,” was all Mycroft said to Sherlock. The words meant nothing to John, but clearly Sherlock knew exactly what--and who--he was talking about.
“Missing,” Sherlock repeated, a hard edge to his voice. “And why, exactly, is he missing?”
Mycroft actually looked slightly uncomfortable, but he didn’t shrink away under his brother’s harsh gaze.
“He was doing some work for me in Norfolk this week. He failed to check in at the appointed time this morning.”
Sherlock blinked at him, as though he didn’t quite understand.
“Norfolk? What was he doing back in the country?”
“Work,” Mycroft repeated, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
“He was retired, Mycroft,” he said slowly, dangerously.
“Technically, yes, but -”
Sherlock’s eyes blazed.
“But what?” he asked in a low voice. “What did you do?”
Mycroft took a deep breath.
“Now and again, I require his expertise. It is unfortunate, I realise, but also unavoidable.”
John had never seen Sherlock look truly horrified before, but he was now, his face gone ashen and his eyes wide. And then his eyes narrowed, and he looked every bit the murderer that people sometimes accused him of being.
“He was raising a child,” Sherlock said, his voice rising with his temper. “He was raising a child on his own -”
“Yes, and whose fault was that?” Mycroft asked mildly.
The remark was as effective as a physical blow, and Sherlock took a step back. He paled first, and then an angry flush began to creep up his neck.
“You imbecile -” he hissed.
“Sherlock -”
“You lying piece of -”
“Sherlock.”
This time it was Lestrade who bellowed the name, and they all turned to look at him. He nodded to the kitchen.
There was a little girl standing in the doorway, no more than seven or eight. She was dressed in a light green jumper and blue pajama bottoms, and her waist-length brown hair was tied back in a sleep-mussed ponytail. Her face was puffy with sleep, but her eyes were wide and alert, and they were fixed on Sherlock.
“Ah,” Mycroft said. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and then looked at John. “Doctor Watson, this is my niece. Violet.”
“Niece,” John repeated. His eyes flicked to Sherlock, who appeared to be frozen to the spot, staring at the girl. “You mean -”
“She’s always been a quiet thing,” Mycroft went on, ignoring John’s words. “She gets that from her father, I suppose.”
Indeed, Violet hadn’t said a word, and she had come upon them so quietly that it made John wonder how much of their conversation she had overheard before Lestrade noticed her standing there. But Sherlock was far from quiet, and even when he wasn’t speaking managed to bang and clatter his way around the flat. It was a strange remark to make, not to mention completely wrong.
“Her other father, John,” Sherlock clarified before John could even think to ask. His words were absent, as he was still transfixed by Violet. “My ex-husband. Come here, Vi.”
The last sentence was soft, and spoken only to Violet. Sherlock sank into a crouch and held out a hand. Violet didn’t move.
“Daddy’s gone,” she said finally. Sherlock’s jaw tightened.
“I know,” he said. “But we’re going to get him back.”
Violet’s face started to crumple.
“What if you don’t?” she asked in a wavering voice.
Sherlock looked fierce.
“I will,” he said in a low voice. “I’m going to get him back.”
Violet finally pushed herself off the doorframe and took a stumbling step towards Sherlock. It seemed that was invitation enough for him, because he straightened and moved towards her, catching her just as her knees started to buckle. He swept her up into his arms, and she buried her face in his neck and started to sob. He paced over to the window, and John watched as Violet fisted tiny hands into Sherlock’s shirt, clinging to him. He murmured inaudible reassurances in her ear, a broad hand rubbing slow circles into her back.
John turned to the other two men.
“He has a daughter?” he hissed to Mycroft. “Why am I only finding out about this now?”
“It wasn’t exactly your business, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Not my - he’s my best friend, for Christ’s sake. How is that not a relevant thing for me to know?”
“It’s a touchy subject,” Lestrade said in an undertone. “The divorce wasn’t amicable, and they moved abroad. He only gets to see Violet a few times a year. He hates it.”
John felt his eyebrows rise. Not amicable, his arse. Maybe at the time, but he had seen the look on Sherlock’s face just now when he realised that something had happened to his ex-husband (for John could only assume that he was the missing man in question.) Sherlock had looked nothing short of terrified.
“They weren’t at the funeral,” he said, trying to fit this previously-unknown piece of Sherlock’s life into the puzzle that comprised his best friend.
But Lestrade shook his head.
“Yes, they were,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t see them.”
“Be fair, John. About how with it were you in the first place?” Lestrade pointed out. “Christ, even I didn’t notice them until Victor came up to say hello.”
Victor. John raked his memory, but he couldn’t remember Sherlock ever even mentioning an acquaintance by that name, let alone someone a good deal more intimate.
And then he thought back on the funeral, that foggy June morning that was already two years past. He remembered only bits and pieces of the day. Lestrade’s eulogy stood out, as did the mostly-empty church, its pews filled only with Sherlock’s closest friends and a few loyal clients.
He recalled then Lestrade talking to a man after the conclusion of the service, a man whose eyes were bruised from too many nights awake and whose mouth was lined with tension. He had been balancing a tearful little girl on his hip, a child whose brunette hair had been cropped to just below her chin and who was wearing a tasteful black and purple dress. John had noticed them only because of the girl, who was the only child at the service, and because Lestrade embraced them both warmly before they departed.
It must have been them.
Violet eventually calmed down, and when Sherlock had wiped the tears from her face he rejoined the group. He balanced the little girl easily on his hip, and Violet rested her head on his shoulder, clearly on the verge of falling asleep.
“Violet, this is Doctor Watson. Say hello,” Sherlock said calmly, all of his earlier anger set aside. Violet lifted her head to gaze at John out of bloodshot eyes, and then a shadow of a smile crossed her features before she buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder again. He raised an incredulous eyebrow at her. “Are you being shy?”
“Daddy reads me his stories,” she whispered. “I know them all.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade passed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Even Mycroft looked slightly amused.
“Your dad has good taste in stories,” John told her, ducking his head to meet her gaze and giving a smile when he caught her eye. “It’s nice to meet you, Violet.”
They chatted for a time about innocuous topics, Sherlock swaying absently. It was a movement John theorized was reflexive in all parents; the moment they had a weight settled on their hip, it triggered an automatic response to rock and soothe. It was effective, too. Within half an hour Violet had fallen asleep again, and Sherlock excused himself to put her back in his room.
Once Violet had been settled again in his bed, he came out into the main room and stared down his brother.
“Now, explain to me,” he said quietly, “how you lost her father.”
“Only temporarily,” Mycroft said. “I admit, how he came to be in London when he started out in Norfolk remains a mystery. But we now know where he is.”
“What? Where?” Sherlock demanded. “Mycroft.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade stepped in. Sherlock whirled around, looking startled, as though he had quite forgotten there were others in the room.
“What’s happened to Victor?” he asked.
“He’s alive, and we know where he is,” Lestrade said quickly, holding up a hand. “It’s just - we can’t get to him yet. He’s trapped.”
“What do you mean, trapped?”
“He’s in the basement of an abandoned warehouse about ten minutes from here,” Lestrade said. He glared pointedly at Mycroft. “God only knows what he was doing there in the first place, but I can tell you that foul play was involved in his being trapped. Someone set off a series of explosives and brought the whole building down while Victor was still in it, Sherlock. We can’t get to him. We’re trying to work our way through the rubble right now, but it’s slow-going.”
Sherlock stared at him for a beat, dumbfounded, and then turned to Mycroft.
“What the hell did you do?” he hissed. “Someone blew up a building just to try to kill him? What have you got him into now?”
“I can’t reveal the details of Mr Trevor’s mission,” Mycroft said calmly.
“The hell you can’t!” Sherlock snapped, but he turned back to Lestrade. Forcing calm into his voice, he asked, “How do you know he’s still alive?”
“We threaded an audio line through the rubble and a small hole in the ceiling of the basement. We can hear him breathing. He’s probably just been knocked unconscious. Half the basement collapsed as well, and we don’t know the extent of his injuries, but he’s still alive. When we wakes up, we’ll be able to communicate with him.”
Sherlock glanced between Lestrade and Mycroft.
“That’s it?” he asked finally. Mycroft inclined his head.
“Apologies, brother, but I can’t reveal anything more than that. His mission was a very delicate one. I’m taking a very big risk by even informing you of his predicament.”
“Predicament -” Sherlock sputtered. His face flushed red in anger. “If Violet is left with only one parent at the end of this, Mycroft, it’s on your head, and you can be assured that I will never forgive you for it.”
Mycroft’s mouth tightened, the only outward sign he gave that the words affected him.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “Victor’s actions helped ensure the safety of our citizens and the well-being of our government. That would make a potential sacrifice on his part more than worth it. You should know that only too well.”
Sherlock’s nostrils flared.
“I did,” he growled, “what I had to do in order to protect those closest to me. I had no choice but to fall.”
“I’m not implying that you did.” Mycroft’s eyes turned cold. “But the next time you take issue with Victor’s choice of career, let me remind you that you engaged the world’s most dangerous criminal mastermind for fun - and your daughter paid the price for it. She thought you were dead for a year, Sherlock, and I couldn’t tell her differently. Bear that in mind before you imply that Victor was being needlessly reckless. I rather think it’s the other way around.”
“Right, that’s enough,” Lestrade said firmly to Mycroft. He seized Sherlock by the elbow to keep him from going after his brother. “Get out, Mr Holmes.”
“Now,” John said when Mycroft didn’t move, “or I’ll throw you out myself.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Mycroft murmured to him, but he left anyway of his own accord, and under his own power. When he had gone, Lestrade took Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.
“We’re going to get Victor out of this,” he said firmly, “and we’ll bring him home to Violet. I promise, lad.”
Sherlock drew a deep, calming breath through his nose.
“I always knew there was a reason why you were her favourite uncle,” he said finally.
“I’d like to think I come out ahead of that git anyway just because I’m, well, nicer.” Lestrade gave his shoulder a squeeze and then dropped his hands.
Sherlock snorted and passed a hand over his face. Now that Mycroft was gone, his anger seemed to have melted away, only to be replaced by palpable concern. He also looked dazed and more than a little lost.
“I don’t have anything for her here,” Sherlock said after a moment spent gazing blankly at them both. “I never thought - she never visits here. It didn’t occur to me -”
“Mycroft made sure she brought enough from home for a lengthy stay. Her suitcase is in your wardrobe,” Lestrade said. He gave a small smile. “And I bought milk.”
Sherlock gave a weak chuckle.
“What do we do from here?” John asked. He looked at Lestrade. “You say you’ve got an audio line open to him.”
“Yeah, but he’s still out. And for God only knows how long. We don’t know the extent of his injuries.” Lestrade turned to Sherlock. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the Yard. I’ll call the moment we have something.”
“We’ll come with you,” Sherlock said, moving for his coat, but Lestrade grabbed his elbow to stop him.
“No,” he said firmly. “You need to stay here, with Violet. There’s nothing you can do from the Yard, and unless you know how to make rubble disappear, there’s nothing you can do at the warehouse, either.”
“Can you let us know when he wakes up, at least?” John stepped in, sensing from the way that Sherlock’s jaw clenched that he was on the verge of releasing a brand-new tirade on Lestrade.
“You’ll be my first call,” Lestrade said to Sherlock, who nodded his thanks. “Get some sleep. We’ll be in touch.”
The silence that settled on the flat in the wake of Lestrade’s departure was as thick as the one that filled the cab on their way home earlier that night. This time, however, the air was heavy not with anger, but with everything that went--and had gone--unsaid.
“So,” John said finally, unable to bear it any longer. “His name is Victor.”
Sherlock stared at him for a long minute, his face unreadable. Then, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open. He slid out a picture that had been tucked into one of the pockets and handed it wordlessly to John.
The child John recognised instantly, for even though she was a baby in the image, her cerulean eyes and sharp nose were unmistakable. The man holding Violet was gazing down at her while he fed her a bottle, and she was looking back at him in wide-eyed wonder. He was as different from Sherlock in appearance as one could get. Classically handsome, he had a strong jaw and symmetrical features, and his eyes were an unassuming shade of blue. His brown hair had been swept off his forehead, and a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. The deep bruises under his eyes and questionable stains on his t-shirt marked him as a new parent, while the joy in his smile marked him as the father of the baby he was holding.
“Victor Trevor,” Sherlock said after a moment. John handed the picture back to him, and he tucked it away again. “We met at university. I was seventeen, and at the time he was the most brilliant man I’d ever met. Still is, in fact.”
He went into the kitchen, where he kept a stash of cigarettes in the drawer that contained his microscope slides. John grabbed a beer while Sherlock lit his cigarette, and they stood there in silence for a time. Sherlock cracked open the tiny window so that the smell wouldn’t disturb Violet, and John privately decided that Mycroft didn’t need to know about this particular slip-up.
“What’s he do?”
“Officially? He’s a physicist, and he worked for an aerospace company while we were still together.”
“In addition to working for Mycroft,” John said after a while. Sherlock’s face darkened.
“Yes,” he said bitterly. “That was a job he worked on the side. Mycroft found him to be highly competent and very useful for a variety of missions. Victor used to travel all around the world on Mycroft’s orders. But he cut back on that work when Violet was born, and when we... separated, he was supposed to have given it up altogether.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asked quietly. “A divorce is a hard thing, I get that, but it’s not something to be ashamed of -”
“I’m not ashamed,” Sherlock said sharply. “Not of them. Never of them.”
“But?”
Sherlock sighed and took a deep pull on his cigarette.
“Lestrade knows about us because I started working for the Yard prior to the divorce. His whole team knows, for that matter, as do Molly and Angelo. My association with Mrs Hudson predates Violet, so she knows as well. But you were the one person who didn’t know simply because of when we met. It was... refreshing.”
John nodded to himself. He could understand that, he supposed, and Sherlock was a private man to begin with. He took a long swallow of beer, and then asked, “How often do you get to see her?”
Sherlock shrugged, but his face shuttered. “Victor visits the country three times a year. He leaves Violet with my mother, and I usually spend a few days at the estate with her.”
John gave a huff of laughter.
“I saw, but I didn’t observe,” he muttered. “I always wondered why you took so many weekend trips to that house when you hate the place so much. And the Christmas dinners...”
Sherlock gave a quick, wry smile.
“I only tolerate those because Violet will be there.”
“So you haven’t seen Victor in a while.”
Sherlock quickly sobered, and he shook his head.
“No. Not since my return.”
“Did he know you were alive?” John asked. He tried to keep the warning out of his tone, but his hand tightened around his beer and Sherlock undoubtedly noticed.
“No,” Sherlock said, and John breathed a silent, selfish sigh of relief. “But only because I didn’t want to draw the attention of Moriarty’s men to them. Moriarty was effective, but short sighted. He only targeted people in my life who were also close enough in proximity to make a point. It didn’t occur to him that the most important person in my life was thousands of miles away. Or he simply didn’t care; I’m not sure.”
“It must be difficult,” John said cautiously, “to have a child with someone you no longer get along with.”
Sherlock gave him a blank look, and then his brows furrowed.
“I assure you, John, nothing could be further from the truth,” he said, sounding almost puzzled. “Victor and I - well, there’s no one on this planet I trust more. Oh, don’t give me that look, I trust you as well. It’s just different, with Victor. You have Mary, surely you understand the difference. And... well.”
Sherlock dropped his eyes to his cigarette, which had largely burned away. He stubbed it out on the edge of the sink before disposing of it.
“I miss him terribly,” he said finally, quietly. “I try not to think about it, because if I’m not careful I’m afraid it will consume me.”
“Does he know?” John asked softly.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed, as though the question confused him. “Of course. He feels the same.”
John couldn’t help himself.
“Then why -”
Sherlock shook his head.
“It wasn’t enough,” he said simply. “We had our share of problems, John, and there were gulfs between us that simply couldn’t be bridged. For some things, love wasn’t enough.”
Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat. He straightened, ran a hand through his hair, and cracked his neck.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’m going to get some sleep before Violet wakes up at six wanting breakfast. You’re staying here?”
“Mary’s working late tonight; figured I would,” John said. He had a habit of staying at Baker Street whenever Mary was working or out of town. He cracked a tentative smile. “Besides, there’s no way I’m passing up a chance to see you babysit.”
----
Sherlock slept on the sofa that night while Violet slumbered in his room. He was pulled out of sleep every hour due to his restless thoughts and the worry that ate away at his insides, and finally gave up on further sleep at four. He lay on the sofa, an arm over his eyes, listening to the flat creak and pop around him.
He shouldn’t have felt so thrown by the night’s revelations. Of course Victor wouldn’t have given up his work; it was as much his life as Sherlock’s consulting was his own. It was foolish to think he could set it aside so easily.
But it had always been a point of contention between them. Sherlock’s consulting, while dangerous at times, was relatively harmless when compared to Victor’s job. The danger was of his own making. Victor’s work, on the other hand, involved secret missions to far corners of the globe or undercover work that lasted for weeks at a time. He was actively killing and trying not to be killed in return, and more than once a price had been put on his head. Before Moriarty, no one had ever actually sought Sherlock out personally and tried to do him harm. But someone, it seemed, was always after Victor.
That was bad enough. But it could quickly spiral, and if it did, Violet was directly in the line of fire.
It must be difficult to have a child with someone you no longer get along with.
On the eve of Sherlock’s return to England, his brother had sent a plane for Victor and Violet, spiriting them away on a moment’s notice to the Holmes family estate.
It was the first time he and Victor had been in the same room since Violet’s fifth birthday two years prior. Victor, seemingly, hadn’t aged a day. Sherlock knew that he had gained five years on his face in just one. And Violet - oh, she had been much too big.
Victor had kissed him, punched him, and hugged him, in precisely that order. Violet had sobbed and laughed and sobbed some more, and Sherlock didn’t think he was ever going to be able to let her go. But he had, three days later. He said goodbye to them in the shadowed foyer of his childhood home, and he didn’t see Violet again until Christmas.
And Victor hadn’t spoken to him since that day, much less agreed to be in the same room with him. Their communication was limited to emails, and the occasional message from Mycroft. Their reunion that hot summer weekend had been tinged with unreality, and for a brief moment it was as though Violet was two again, and their marriage was whole. But then Victor had seen the track marks on his arms, evidence of a year that had been less than kind to Sherlock, and the flickering hope that they might be able to rebuild again was snuffed out.
Victor was the best thing ever to happen to him. But all the good times couldn’t make up for the bad, and sometimes love just wasn’t enough.
Sherlock heard his bedroom door creak open, and then the soft slap of tiny bare feet on the lino in the kitchen. Violet paused by the sofa.
“Dad?” she asked tentatively, her voice so soft it was nearly inaudible. She had never come up with two distinct names that she used to refer to her parents. The parent who was present was always Dad, and the absent parent-or the one she was referring to-tended to be Daddy.
“I’m awake,” he murmured, lifting his arm off his eyes. “What is it, Violet?”
He didn’t need an answer and didn’t expect one. The question was invitation enough, and Violet crawled up onto the sofa, settling down on the thin strip of cushion that was left when Sherlock slid over to make room. He pulled the blanket off his legs and wrapped it around Violet instead, and she cuddled up against him. With her head on his chest, her feet reached almost down to his knees.
She hadn’t been this tall at Christmas.
“Do you think Daddy’s scared?” Violet asked softly. Sherlock snorted.
“Your father is the bravest man I know,” he said with sincerity. Victor was also the most infuriating, but Sherlock suspected that Violet didn’t need to know that right now. “What are you doing awake?”
“I can’t sleep,” Violet whispered, looking up at him.
“Ah. Well, neither can I.” Sherlock rubbed her back absently, and she settled her head on his shoulder again.
“Daddy usually reads me a story when I can’t sleep.”
“I don’t have any stories here.”
Violet began to pick at a loose thread on his shirt.
“He reads me Doctor Watson’s stories. My favorite is the case of the Aluminum Crutch.”
“He does not.”
Violet nodded vigorously.
“He does. And did you really meet a headless ghost? Daddy says ghosts aren’t real.”
“They aren’t,” Sherlock said firmly. “Doctor Watson simply enjoys going on flights of fancy.”
“What’re those?”
“Never mind.” Sherlock ran a hand through Violet’s hair. He had thought she’d been exaggerating earlier when she said she knew all of John’s stories, but evidently that was not the case.
It was one more thing to take up with Victor once they got him out of this sorry mess, right after Sherlock took him to task for going on another one of Mycroft’s missions and getting himself blown up.
That is, if they ever got Victor out of this mess.
“Violet,” Sherlock said, trying to shake the thought from his mind, “did your dad ever tell you the story about the comic book murders?”
She lifted her head to look at him, eyes wide with excitement.
“No,” she said. “That sounds cool.”
Sherlock laughed, the first time he had managed to do so this evening, and pulled her against his chest again.
She fell asleep halfway through the story. Sherlock followed not long after, and would probably have slept for half the morning if not for the text from Lestrade that woke him at seven.
He’s waking up.
-----
Lestrade had set up a makeshift command center in one of the conference rooms at the Yard. A computer and audio equipment had been brought in, and his team had been using them to monitor both the rescue efforts and Victor’s condition.
“They’re still hours away from reaching him,” Lestrade said quietly, bringing John and Sherlock up to speed while the rest of his team bustled around them. “And before you ask, no, we haven’t got any leads on who might have done this. Though I suspect that’s a result of your brother’s meddling, Sherlock. He’s been stonewalling our investigation at every turn. But finding out who did this won’t make that rubble move any quicker, so I’m inclined to let it go for the moment.”
Sherlock shot a glance to the other side of the room, where Mycroft was milling in a corner.
“Did you call him here?”
Lestrade looked offended.
“God, no,” he said emphatically. “Don’t ask me how he found out; he just showed up here.”
“Sounds like him,” John muttered. “Has Victor said anything yet?”
Lestrade shook his head.
“Nothing of importance. He’s still very groggy; all we’ve managed are a few hellos. I don’t think his situation has quite registered with him yet. I thought a familiar voice might help.”
He looked pointedly at Sherlock, who glanced away uneasily.
“We don’t talk,” he said simply.
“I know,” Lestrade said gently. “I don’t think he’ll care about that at the moment, do you?”
“You’d be surprised how long that man can hold a grudge.”
“Sir!” Donovan called suddenly. The noise in the room ceased altogether, and Lestrade hurried back over to her side. She had been manning the microphone, and was the first person to make contact with Victor earlier. “I think he’s - hello?”
There was a pause, and then -
“Who’s there?”
Everyone looked at Sherlock. He shifted, for the first time in his life uncomfortable with the attention suddenly being on him.
“Victor,” he said quietly. “It’s me.”
There was silence on the other end for half a minute. It felt like an eternity.
“Sherlock,” Victor said finally. “What’s going on?”
Sherlock took a moment just for breathing. It had been so long since he’d heard Victor’s voice. Victor always dropped Violet off with Sherlock’s mother on their thrice-yearly trips to England and disappeared for the weekend so Sherlock could have some uninterrupted time with his daughter--and so that Victor wouldn’t have to be in the same room with him. They didn’t even speak by phone anymore, confining their conversations to brisk emails that talked only about Violet and said nothing about their own lives.
“It’s... complicated,” he said at last. “What do you remember?”
“Not much,” Victor said, but his voice was suddenly guarded. Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath.
“This is no time to be keeping my brother’s secrets,” he said irritably. “What were you doing in there? What happened?”
“It’s all right, Mr Trevor,” Mycroft said, stepping in. Sherlock wanted to punch him. “You can divulge that much.”
“There isn’t much to say,” Victor admitted. “I thought I heard a sound in the basement of this building, so I went to investigate. The next thing I know, I’m talking to - well. Whoever you all are. What the hell is going on?”
“You’re trapped in the basement of a warehouse,” Sherlock told him. “I don’t know why you were there in the first place, but when you went into the basement, someone set off a series of explosives that brought the entire building down on top of you. There are people working to get to you, but it’s going to take a while. You’re talking to Lestrade’s team. We’re at the Yard.”
Victor’s response was a long time in coming.
“I see,” he said slowly. “So... someone blew up this building?”
“Just to get to you, yes.”
“Mr Trevor, how are you feeling?” John stepped in. His brow had furrowed suddenly, and there was an apprehensive edge to his voice.
Everyone turned to look at him. Sherlock scowled.
“This is hardly the time for you to show off your skills,” he hissed. “And it’s a waste of air -”
“Mr Trevor, this is John Watson,” John said, talking over Sherlock and cutting him off. “I’m a physician. I need to know how you’re feeling right now.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Head hurts like a bitch,” Victor said finally. “I think I got hit with something.”
“I’m not surprised.” John folded his arms across his chest. “But that’s not all.”
“No,” Victor said at length. “There’s also nausea, dizziness, and a ringing in my ears. And I don’t entirely remember what happened immediately before the explosion.”
“You’re also experiencing some mild confusion, from what I can tell.” John looked at the assembled team. “It sounds like he’s got a concussion, and a pretty bad one, too. Which means that we can’t let him fall asleep.”
Lestrade cursed quietly, and Sherlock felt a knot form in his chest.
“Did you hear that, Victor?” Lestrade asked finally.
“I did.”
“Right, then, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re all going to take shifts, every couple of hours, until we get you out of there. People, I want you to keep him awake. That means you talk, you keep him engaged, and you don’t let him fall asleep. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the rest of his team chorused.
“Good. And as for you, Victor, you are not allowed to fall asleep. Is that understood?”
There was a note of amusement in Victor’s voice when he answered.
“Understood, Greg.”
“Good. Donovan, you’ve got the first shift. Everyone else, back to work.”
Mycroft made his farewells out in the corridor and left the Yard. Lestrade turned to John.
“I can’t really spare many people for this,” he said quietly. “I’ll have Donovan give it a go, and then Ricky and Anderson. Can you give us a hand? Fill in in case things need to be shuffled around; take a shift here and there.”
“Of course,” John said, and Lestrade nodded his thanks.
“Now, Sherlock -”
“I need to be at Baker Street,” Sherlock said quietly, before Lestrade could order him away. “I know. You’ll call.”
Lestrade nodded.
“The moment we have anything.”
----
Part 2
----
Further Notes: Victor Trevor is a character from ACD canon who appears in “The Adventure of the ‘Gloria Scott.’” While this is not the same VT who has appeared in my other fics, he is a variation on a common theme, so there are similarities that carry over from fic to fic. Needless to say, this VT storyline isn’t related to any other one I’ve written, but if you prefer to indulge in some fanfic-canon bending in order to slot all the stories together, by all means.