Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes stared across the room and at a girl, who was almost buried beneath a mountain of blankets; the story she'd told him seemed completely made up, fictitious and idiotic but Sherlock could tell that every word that had come out of her mouth had been nothing but the truth and as he surveyed her, carefully reading everything he could, came to realise that, even though this wasn't the case he'd been expecting, it was just the thing he needed.

It had been an infuriating few weeks for Sherlock Holmes; things had been quiet around London and no crimes or weird happenings had needed him to be solved. Even Lestrade hadn't needed him, as useless as he is when it comes to solving police crimes and, with John accepting more hours at the clinic, he'd been going almost out of his mind with boredom.

The girl, beneath the blankets, had claimed that the baby she'd brought with her was his; she'd told him that nine months or so ago they'd gotten drunk, slept together and then parted ways. The idea of him having sexual relations with someone was preposterous but even he couldn't deny the memory of waking up beside her, around the time she'd mentioned, and having no memory of the night before.

It was hard to admit but this was a case that didn't really need solving; unless he requested a DNA test and it turned out to be false.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but the girl jumped in before him. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, I wouldn't bother you at all but I'm not going to be around for much longer and I have no one else to take care of her when I'm gone."

"Gone?" He frowned "Where are you going?"

"To a place where most people can't follow" she replied. "I'm going to die, Mr Holmes, soon; too soon for my liking but there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Of course Sherlock had already deduced that she has terminal cancer and the most time she had left was barely more than a couple of weeks; her body had already begun to shut down, her immune system was obviously not working and her body wasn't creating any warmth. She was skin and bone, ready to fall at not even a moment's notice.

"That's why I was out clubbing" she admitted "I'd received the news and was determined to have a good time before the inevitable happened; I'd given up all hopes of having children when I was first diagnosed so when I found out that I was pregnant-" the girl paused, biting her lower lip "I couldn't let them kill her; it would have been my biggest regret. They gave me pills to help but warned me that her chance of survival was even less than mine if I hung on long enough to give birth."

"So a termination was out of the question" Sherlock stated "but what would have happened if you'd died during the birth?"

"I'm going to die anyway" she claimed "at least she would have a chance; Sherlock, Joan is my legacy." The dying girl glanced affectionately down at the pink Moses basket which was sitting beside the chair.

Sherlock frowned "Joan, who is Joan?" Also glancing at the basket but, as the hood was up, could not see inside it.

"My baby, I named her after myself."

"Well that's going to change" he told her. "No child of mine, if she is mine, will most certainly not be called Joan; there should be a law against it!"

"All I need to know, Mr Holmes, is that you'll take care of her when I'm gone."

Sherlock stared at Joan and, knowing that she wouldn't leave until he'd given her his word, said "if, and I mean if, the child is mine I will ensure that she will be taken care of."

The girl seemed at a loss for words but said nothing more as she drifted off to sleep.

John Watson

The clinic had been quiet all day which had been lucky for John because he'd fallen asleep in his chair with his legs propped up on his desk; his flatmate, Sherlock, hadn't been able to sleep…something John put down to the fact that things were also very quiet at home. Sherlock hadn't had a case for a good few weeks and that always irritated the detective.

John had hunted around the messages, left on the website, looking for something interesting for his friend but, every time he found one that looked even remotely complicated, Sherlock would solve it without even needing to leave the flat.

So now Sherlock was bored, irritated and very annoying which meant that John wouldn't get a restful night's sleep until his detective, intellectual, friend had been sated.

A loud buzz followed by "Mr Watson!" jolted John from his slumber. He hit the button to the intercom, which was on his desk, and said "yes, what is it?"

"There's a Mr Holmes for you on line one."

John sighed, rubbing his eyes; he'd wondered how long it would take for Sherlock to start calling him at work. "Thanks, I've got it."

He released the button, picked up the phone and, before he could even take a breath, the person said "John, John! Are you there? Are you ok? I've texted you ten times, why haven't you answered?"

"Sherlock, I'm at work!"

"and I'm where you really need to be" Sherlock replied before shouting "HOME, NOW!" and hanging up.

It took a moment for the ringing in John's ears to fade before he replaced the phone back in its cradle and pulled out his phone to find that he did had ten text messages from Sherlock;

1:00pm 'Bored - SH'

1:30pm 'I'm bored, John! - SH'

3:00pm 'When are you getting home? - SH'

3:01pm 'There's no tea bags and I've lost Mrs Hudson - SH'

4:00pm 'Interesting case, get home now! - SH'

4:25pm 'Where are you? - SH'

4:30pm 'Hurry up, John! - SH'

4:50pm 'Get home now! - SH'

4:59pm 'In case you've forgotten the address it's 221B Baker Street; hurry up! - SH'

5:00pm 'Oh and we've run out of milk - SH'

No wonder he'd been so irritable on the phone, he'd finally found a case to satisfy his ever increasing appetite for crime. John glanced at the clock; 5:05pm, it was quitting time anyway so, with a deep sigh, he heaved himself up from his chair, grabbed his coat and bag from the back of the door and left, waving goodbyes to his colleagues on his way out.

When he finally walked into the flat, he could hear Sherlock pacing the room above him as he spoke loudly on the phone. "What do you mean 'not now'? This is a matter of the utmost urgency and I require your services!" There was a short pause before "Yes, but this time there is a body!" There was another pause before a bang as something, John assumed was Sherlock's phone, hit the floor and slid across it. Now that Sherlock wasn't shouting, John could also hear a noise that he could only describe as a baby crying.

"Good day at work, John?" Mrs Hudson asked, appearing in the hall with a couple of bin bags.

"Quiet" was all he said as he frowned up at the ceiling. "How long has he been shouting and what the hell is making that noise?"

"Oh, I don't know" she replied "a girl went up there a few hours ago but he didn't start shouting until about five minutes ago. John, what's going on?"

Sighing, John shrugged "I don't know but I'd better go and find out before he wears a hole in the ceiling and falls through."

"JOHN, IF THAT'S YOU, GET UP HERE NOW!" Sherlock bellowed.

"He doesn't miss a trick does he?" Mrs Hudson commented "well, you'd better get up there, John. Good luck."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson." Grimaced John before climbing up the stairs toward the flat he shared with, the high functioning sociopath he calls, his best friend.

As soon as John entered the living room the first thing he noticed was the obviously dead woman who was sitting in his usual chair; the second was Sherlock Holmes pacing the room with a baby, bawling fit to burst, in his arms. The baby looked no older than three months and was dressed in a vile pink dress.

"Please, god, Sherlock, please don't tell me that you killed that girl and stole her baby!"

"Of course not!" Sherlock snapped back, striding over to John and dumping the baby in to his arms. As soon as John had positioned the baby correctly, she stopped crying and John couldn't help but coo at her. "She's my daughter, now, if you don't mind, I need to call the morgue…again."

"Hang on" John had to do a double take at the words 'my daughter' "what do you mean your daughter?" As far as he knew, Sherlock was an asexual virgin.

"It's a long story but, in short, there's a night about nine months ago that I don't remember and Joan" he grimaced at the name "was the result; of course I'll be having a paternity test done on her and then we'll go from there."

"So, let me get this right" John was starting to let a smile creep onto his face as he rocked Joan "you got drunk, had sex and can't even remember? So…you have a baby but, in your head, you're still a virgin?"

"Stop smirking, John" Sherlock snapped "it doesn't suit you but, more or less, yes."

John looked down at the baby and began to stare back and forth between her and Sherlock, noting the resemblances. Same colour eyes, same nose, same hair colour…"oh, she's definitely yours, mate!" he laughed "tell me, do you make the same expression when you're doing a poo?"

Frowning, Sherlock peered at the baby who was indeed pulling the same face he used when emptying his bowls. "I don't usually watch myself when I'm on the toilet." He retorted.

"You do!" John laughed "Oh, Sherlock, you are way out of your head on this one, mate!"