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Stuck in the jet wash, bad trip I couldn't get off, and maybe I bit off more than I could chew;
And overhead of the aqua blue, fall to your knees bring on the rapture, blessed be the boys time can't capture;
On film or between the sheets, I always fall from your window, to the pitch black streets…
“Lestrade, I want a child, I need one; we shall adopt one, immediately…” Sherlock states out of the blue, barging straight into Lestrade’s supposedly-locked bedroom at two in the morning; blank stare and demanding tone as usual.
“Sherlock!? We’re not even dating?” Greg exclaimed exasperatedly, giving up on his dream of sleeping a full eight hours in favour of listening to Sherlock’s innocuous rambling. He’s too used to Sherlock breaking in to actually be surprised any more.
“Is that truly your first and only objection? John’s was more along the lines of his wife, the cost and safety, Mary tutted, whereas Molly fainted and Mrs Hudson groaned on about ‘grandchildren’. Daft old woman…” Sherlock looked out Lestrade’s window in an attempt to hide the proud smile and softer tone in which he described Mrs Hudson’s reaction. Lestrade was shocked to his core; or maybe that was just the exhaustion.
“Okay. Let’s start again shall we? Why on bloody earth do you need a kid?” Greg ran a hand through his scruffy, greying hair, pushing himself up as Sherlock made himself comfortable on the other side of the double bed. There was no need for a king or queen size with the wife officially gone.
“Well, it’s a whole new wealth of experiments I can test without substituting babies for animals, far more accurate. I can teach it, my very own prodigy; an heir to my business. It won’t be entirely boring. It could clean the flat, when it’s older, I suppose…” Sherlock’s enthusiasm and answers faded, his shoulders drooped as he caught a glimpse at the Detective Inspector’s reaction; scowling face, angry eyes and disappointed posture. Bit not good.
“Sherl-”
“I just need it. I- You are my best friend…” That caught Lestrade by surprise. Sherlock was really pulling them out tonight.
“But John-“
“No. You are my best friend, John has Mary now but you were always here; even when I was not. You hugged me, John hit me…” Sherlock’s dark, watery eyes were the saddest thing Gregory Lestrade had seen since he found Sherlock in the first place and it made his old bones ache.
“Rightfully so…” Greg grinned, an attempt to lighten the suffocating darkness. Why did these two do these things in the dark? To hide from reality or was this where their reality truly lived; in these blank, dark moments between murders, suicides and weddings?
“I deserved it, but why didn’t you?” Sherlock looked almost pained by the question, as if he’d been stuck on it since the incident three months ago. He moved himself, awaiting Lestrade’s judgement, facing him almost head-on.
“Hit you? Why would I hit you? You hurt me to save me and I am really grateful for that, even if you are a right bastard for not telling us… John was too close to see clearly what you gave up for us,” Greg swivelled, setting him and Sherlock face to face on the bed. Watching him closely, no sign of recent drug use.“So, you didn’t care enough to hit me?” Sherlock’s voice almost broke. The night always made him vulnerable; Mycroft used to tease him about his need for night-lights as a child.
“No. I’ve seen you high and crashing, depressed and enthusiastic, in pain and in love. I know you and I love you Sherlock Holmes…” Greg wanted to clutch onto Sherlock and never let him go at the sound of his wrecked voice; he allowed himself to hold his hand, squeezing it gently.
“Oh…” Was all that left Sherlock and the room was melted into silence once more until Lestrade couldn’t deal with it, pushing the original subject again.
“So, I’m your best friend and…” With Sherlock registering once more, removing his hand from Greg’s to run effortlessly along the ripped seam at the leg of Lestrade’s pyjama bottoms; a distraction.
“You are my best friend and you would be an adequate father for a child. I knew John would say no, he and Mary have one of their own to worry about and Molly is too young and Mrs Hudson is too old and I’m too dangerous and unreliable to do this on my own. I need it, Greg, please…”
And with the black banners raised as the crooked smiles fade, former heroes who quit too late, just wanna fill up the trophy case again
And in the end, I'd do it all again, I think you're my best friend, don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright
I'll be yours, when it rains it pours, stay thirsty like before, don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not and- wait what?! John and Mary are pregnant!” Lestrade was happy for them for all of three seconds before he realised how truly alone Sherlock would be; had been.
“Stupid. I wasn’t supposed to share that,” Sherlock winced, he never slipped like that, not even when high.
“You silly sod, you… I won’t say anything.” Greg watched him fiddle with the loose hem, enraptured.
“Thank you.” Sherlock was never grateful either, something was seriously wrong here.
“I need to know Sherlock. I can’t consider this without knowing why?”
“I am alone; I enjoy being alone, working alone. I cannot live with the- loneliness anymore, you and John ruined that for me. I have become accustomed to certain things, addicted again, and I can’t go back. I need to focus on something new, I am being torn apart piece by piece and I need you to fix it. A child is a fresh life, it’s supposed to take over your life, become your one purpose and priority. This will fix me…” Sherlock pleaded with sincere desperation, finally meeting Greg’s eyes; just as watery as his own.
“What if I-it can’t? We couldn’t be enough for you, you’re Sherlock Bloody Holmes for chrissakes! A child in the middle of all this is too dangerous,” Greg reasoned self-deprecatingly.
“You are far more than enough for me. You have always adored children; your wife never wanted any. Let me give this to you, let me have this,” Sherlock’s confidence returned ever so slightly.
“I- How? Never mind. Yes, I want children, I like kids but I don’t even know how to do this. Would we even be legible for adoption?” Old thoughts and emotions stirred around within Greg, things he hadn’t longed for in years but the gut-wrenching want was returning, like Sherlock, from the dead. Should he do this?
“Mycroft can do almost anything with the right reason.” Sherlock assured him, confidence almost fully rebooted, clutching both of Lestrade’s hands in his. He was sick of being stuck, in pain and needy. Sentiment, ugh.
“What’s our reason, then?” Greg asked, fuelling himself off of Sherlock’s determined nature.
“We love each other and we want a family…”
I'm not passive but aggressive, take note, it's not impressive, empty your sadness, like you're dumping your purse
On my bedroom floor, we put your curse in reverse, and it's our time now if you want it to be
More the war like the carnival bears set free, and your love is anaemic and I can't believe, that you couldn't see it coming from me
“Is that- are you telling the truth? If you aren’t- if this is another scam then I don’t know if I should put myself through that pain. If we’re going to do this Sherlock, you have to mean it, like I do.” Greg’s stern tone struck Sherlock once more.
“I never knew.”
“What?”
“That you loved- love me.”
“Silly, silly man. How could anyone not fall just that bit in love with you, and I’m just as stupid as you always say I am, decided to fall the whole bloomin’ way.” Greg chuckled self-consciously, still not entirely sure what was happening.
“This is not something I do. At least not well. Relationships and love and feelings. That was why I asked you to be the other guardian, that’s what you do.” Sherlock reasoned, cringing at himself.
“That’s not what I want from you, not right now anyway. I just want to know you’re not lying to me again, leaving us out of a big picture that affects me too. I need to know that at some point you will love me and our child enough to tell us and to promise that you need us as much as I know we’ll need you. Please…” Greg held Sherlock’s face in his hands ever so gently, kissing his forehead, still not knowing where this would take him.
“I swear on my brain, my mind palace, that this is what I need for no other reason than I would kill myself through overdose or exhaustion without something this important to keep me sane. You always somehow have.” Sherlock whispered, promised.
The two men sat there clutching at the only other person in the world that could save them from themselves and thinking of the life that would tie them together eternally. Two greying, aching men in ragged and creased clothes on a recycled double bed at four thirty in the morning; a dawn of a new day.
And I still feel that rush in my veins, it twists my head just a bit too thin, all those people in those old photographs I've seen are dead
And in the end, I'd do it all again, I think you're my best friend, don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright
I'll be yours, when it rains it pours, stay thirsty like before, don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright
6 Months Later…
“Your parents have called four times in a week ‘Lock, we can’t ignore them forever. She has some grandparents who want to spoil her rotten, let them. God knows mine can’t.” Greg’s voice echoed down the hall, although his last sentence was saved for his own sorry self.
“Your mother would be very proud and I am sorry she couldn’t meet her. And my parents just don’t believe Mycroft when he says I’ve moved in with some detective and his daughter,” Sherlock admitted sincerely, scooping the little bundle from the changing table as Greg bagged the dirty nappy.
“Our daughter. Why didn’t you just tell them the truth then?” Greg rolled his eyes as Sherlock tried to ignore him, staring intently into the 8 month-old’s eyes as she stared right back. Greg was shocked that they weren’t somehow genetically related; she even had Sherlock’s striking blue-grey eyes.
“The same reason why you told your ex-wife the truth rather than lie like I did. Amusement.” Sherlock smirked and the little girl with fine tufts of brown hair grabbed at his curls as she was wont to do.
“Ah-ah Emmy, no pulling Daddy’s hair,” Greg scolded lightly as Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.
“Gregory, you do realise that she can barely talk never mind understand you.”
“She’s never too young to learn isn’t that right my little beauty,” Greg cooed, kissing her soft head, smile never leaving his face.
He never would have realised how astoundingly happy he would be raising a daughter with Sherlock Holmes. Emmerson Valeria Lestrade-Homes was born to a smart sixteen year-old who made some stupid decisions; which did not include finding something within these two men she entrusted to raise her daughter. She was adopted nearly five months after her birth and Greg fell in love at first sight with the wriggly thing as sun-kissed as himself; named partially after his Mother, Valerie Lestrade, whom had lost her battle against cancer the month before she could meet her only granddaughter thus far. For Sherlock, his lack of experience around children shone but his determination never lacked and the child took an almost overwhelming attachment to his face and hair; which he then used to his advantage.
Watching Sherlock navigate fatherhood was something he wouldn’t trade for the world. You will never understand true justice until you’ve watched the CCTV Mycroft has supposedly deleted of Sherlock’s escapades with a baby stroller.
“Need help folding it up?” Greg asked, hiding a grin into Emmerson’s hair.
“I have two degrees and a masters to my name Greg; I can master a simple children’s pram…” Sherlock tutted as Greg walked over to the play crib and began lunch for Emmy…
“’Lock! It’s been two hours, just bloody chuck it by the front door and come eat something!” Greg shouted as loud as he could with a three month old asleep in his room.
“Greg… My arm may or may not be stuck… Get the jaws of life from my wardrobe…”
To Sherlock’s apparently non-existent filter around people who see him with his daughter.
“Aw! You’re nuzzling her Sherlock, in’t that sweet…” Mrs Hudson cooed, clasping her hands to her chest at the sight. Sherlock stopped his pacing with the baby to squint at her and then at Emmerson.
“Yes… I definitely didn’t have an itchy nose…” He had the decency to blush then as Greg arrived back with the tea.
Even when they too have a child, poor John…
“Rosie does just that with me too, must be a Dad thing,” John chuffed proudly as he watched little Emmy Holmes clutch at her Daddy’s hair as her crying dies down on his shoulder.
“Please, John. We are a mere human napkin to this children, wipe snot, puke and poop here we may as well read,” Sherlock scoffed before Greg managed to smack him with a tea towel, making Emmerson laugh and smack her chubby hand against his cheek too. John’s dropped face lightened up once more as he watched the three of them communicate in their own way without realising. He was glad he they could all save each other this time.
Not wanting to leave Mrs Hudson in the lurch or put the effort in for finding a new place while straggling through the adoption process, the men decided it was best for them both to live in 221b after a little converting. Sherlock’s labs and experiment were now permanently in his old bedroom fitted with suitable airlocks, emergency seals and ventilation through its connection to the bathroom. The kitchen was fully re-done and baby proofed, as was the living room and hall; Sherlock was less than pleased at the baby gates that detrimentally affected his dramatic exits. That was until Emmy reminded her Daddy that they were entirely necessary.
“Emmerson your Father is an idiot. Of course it wasn’t the wife, look at the victim’s elbows for goodness sake…” Sherlock barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes and swearing which he was warned against doing around impressionable beings. Speaking of, usually his daughter would gurgle happily at him and they would laugh at her co-guardian together. He looked up at the empty space and every dreadfully terrifying thing that he had seen happen over his lifetime shredded his guts to a pulp, his vision burning as the gap that held his daughter stood blank. He promised, oh god he’d promised- he had and Greg would never forgive him and he would rather kill himself because he did… He did love them both more than anyone would’ve ever dreamed possible. Please no…
“Emmerson!” Sherlock scrabbled to his feet rushing to the open door leading to the stairs where he couldn’t even bloody remember if he’d closed the child gate or if he’d heard the one of the two things that had saved him cry out in pain and he was too busy… always too fucking busy, Holmes!
And there she sat, smiling at him. Leaning against the fully locked and padded child gate, bouncing her favourite stuffed toy, an overly-fluffy bee, up and down in excitement at her Daddy’s attention. Sherlock just about stopped himself from collapsing as he fell to his knees; tucking her in close to his chest as she continued to gurgle at him happily. Overreaction, a common sentiment in new parents. How terribly average and petrifying.
Sherlock told Greg after that, how he loved him and Emmerson. Greg had never seen him so terrified, even before he told Mrs Hudson he wasn’t really dead; and that was something to actually be worried about. Greg just smiled, nodded and kissed both his and Emmy’s forehead before making dinner.
Sherlock and he. It was unique. They shared a bedroom and an apartment and a family. They had never kissed, had sex or discussed it past their devotion to each other and their daughter; who had now moved into the converted bedroom next to John’s old one which they used on the upper floor. They still had arguments and worked together and Sherlock didn’t lighten up much on the insult front but it all stayed there, at work. The work was a part of The Game but their family was the entire puzzle and nothing would take that from them.
Sherlock isn’t alright because he quit too soon; he’s brilliant because he changed the prize.
Greg’s not alright because he’s Sherlock’s best friend; he’s bloody ecstatic because it’s their time now.
And sometimes I just want to sit around, and gaze at my shoes yeah, and let your dirty sadness fill me up, just like a balloon,
And in the end, I'd do it all again, I think you're my best friend, don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright,
“Stop fussing, we’re late as it is, come on,” Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly, kissed Lestrade chastely on his lips without realising and placed Emmerson into her stroller.
Lestrade stood, shocked, touched his lips and smiled.
“Right behind you…” As always.
And I'll be yours, when it rains it pours, stay thirsty like before, don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright.