Sherlock Short Stories

Bad example

They were in the flat when it happened.

It had been a boringly, below-average day at 221B, consisting of four rounds of tea, two new violin compositions, five individual snack breaks and a forty five minute nap time for both Watsons.

Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, John was making yet more tea and little Rosie was sat in the middle of the room, on a rug, playing with toys, when she attempted to grab a glass from the coffee table.

John had immediately jumped to the rescue: snatching the easily breakable glass away from her and chiding his daughter: "No Rosie, that's not for you."

Her response was what had caused the problem...

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Go 'way! Go 'way! Shut up! No! No! No!"

For five minutes. Straight. Unending shouting. From the three year old. She only calmed down when the infamous Sherlock Holmes had sat her on his lap and hummed her a lullaby. She fell asleep, exhausted from her tantrum, and was carefully placed in her cot.

All through that, the tension behind John Watson's eyes had built. Sherlock knew it. Sherlock knew what was coming.
"Jesus fucking Christ Sherlock!"
"John-"
"No! You don't get a say in this! She learnt that off of you!"
"John-"
"You say that all the time and now she says it too!"
"I'm sorry. I did not realise you found such words so offens-"
"No!" John's final shout was so loud it cut both men off into silence. John began again, this time quieter as he was all too aware of his sleeping daughter in the next room, "The words are not the problem here, Sherlock. The problem here is that she is learning from people around her and the people around her include you! If she is picking up that from you then what else will she begin to do? Huh?"

Silence.

Just the panting of breathe and Sherlock's dismayed speechlessness. John began again, "First it'll be your words, your phrases. Then what, Hm? Your sleeplessness? Your lack of appetite? Your atrocious people skills? I don't want my daughter learning that! I don't want-" John broke off, shaking his head side to side, voice broken from emotion and tears welling in his eyes. He had realised what he was about to say, and so had Sherlock, and he immediately regretted it.
"Say it, John,"
"No, I don't mean it. You know I don't mean that."
"Yes you do." The statement was not accusatory, it was not angry or spiteful. Perhaps if it had been then John wouldn't have felt bad. But the phrase was said with utter honesty. With an acceptance so rarely heard from the egotistical man.
"I didn't-"
"Say it."
"I don't want her... I don't want her to become like you." Defeated, John watched Sherlock with an empty sort of regret.

Sherlock didn't shout back. He didn't cry or flinch or even slightly whimper. He did nothing to argue, to defend or even explain himself. He simply nodded. Because Sherlock, on this very rare occasion, Knew John was right. He had been thinking these exact things for months: noting how Rosie would talk like him, sit like him, become exactly like him and knowing that was condemning his best friend's child to misery.

So Sherlock simply nodded slightly, pursed his lips, and left a still panting John in the living room to retrieve his scarf and coat; wrapping his armour around his body, and fleeing the flat.

He didn't return.

He stayed at Molly's first; he kipped on her two seater sofa, with legs and head not all fitting lengthways, in her little one woman flat. How a woman could have such an uncomfortable sofa he did not know; it was nothing like at his- no, he wouldn't, couldn't think about there.

Then he stayed at Greg's (who he mis-named three times whilst trying to ask for the favour) and slept in his spare bed. He fit in that, at least. But Greg eventually grew impatient, lacking rather considerably when it came to patience when compared to Molly or to Jo- but Sherlock wouldn't think about him. No.