BBC Sherlock Imagines (Book 2)

Sherlock: Two

"Sweetie hold on a second, mummy has to wash her hands," you said, looking back over your shoulder to give your two year old son a smile. He slapped his palms against the table in anger, and stuck out his lip to pout. "You better put that lip away unless you want a chicken to poop on it," you warned, quoting something your parents used to tell you.

"Mummy a chicken is going to poop on you... on your head!" he laughed, his bad mood disappearing in a second. That's what you loved about kids - they couldn't stay sad forever.

You dried your hands and made you way over to help your son out of the booster seat at the table. You lifted him up, his curly hair tickling your chin. A crack in your heart threatened to reopen, but you bit your lip and fought back. You couldn't afford to lose it today. "Go in your room and put on some pajamas, I'll be in there in a second," you said, trying your best to ignore the faults in your own voice.

It was getting harder everyday. Everyday you woke up and swore he was becoming more and more like him. His hair was getting curlier and darker, his eyes bluer and brighter, his intelligence growing bigger and bigger. Of course, he had your nose and your chin and your smile, but you only saw the Sherlock in him. Not only that, but you could barely speak his name. At the time it had seemed great, naming him after his father, but somedays it was hard for you to form the words. You wiped down the table, including the tiny drops that your eyes had contributed to the surface.

You walked down the hall to his bedroom, stepping just inside the doorway. You watched him building a tower with his blocks, dressed in a t-shirt with a dinosaur scientist on front and matching shorts. He was building the building as tall as him, and when he stepped back to admire it, his eyes blue lit up as they spotted you. "Mummy," he grinned.

"Let's brush your teeth," you said, and he galloped after you to the bathroom. You sat him on the counter and brushed his teeth, then had him try going potty. Afterwards you chased him into his room where he hopped onto his bed and grabbed what looked like 10 books from his bedside table.

"William Scott," you warned with a smile, "don't think that you'll get out of going to sleep by trying to make me read all these books."

"Learning is important," he argued, shrugging his shoulders and scooting over so you could lay beside him in bed.

"Where did you learn the word 'important' from mister? Seems a little too big for your vocabulary," you chuckled.

"Uncle Myc," he said, grabbing the book on top of the pile and turning it to the first page. "He said I'm going to be the smartest little boy there ever was. Even smarter than my daddy!" William said it with such innocence, with such composure, like Sherlock had just gone on a long vacation and would be back any day. Of course, that's probably what he thought. He never asked where Sherlock was, and part of you felt like he knew in a way. It was times like these that were the hardest. It was not fair that he had never gotten to meet his father, and that all he got were the remnants of him.

"Yes you are," was all you could muster.

You cleared your throat and began reading. After the third book he was asleep. You got up, kissing his head and tucking him in tight. You flipped off the lamp, and left the door ajar as you tiptoed out. You leaned against the hallway wall, taking a deep breath. You were so tired that you didn't even have the energy to watch TV, or even eat a bowl of ice cream. Instead you walked to the bathroom, washed your face, brushed your teeth, and padded down the hall to your room.

You opened up the closet, grabbing a black t-shirt from his drawer. You tried not to do this all the time, knowing that it made it harder to accept the fact that he was gone. But on a night like tonight, you needed him, even if it all you could have was his smell.

You slipped under the covers, and instantly you let yourself go. You choked back sobs, not wanting to wake William down the hall. Your heart was breaking over and over, and it still hurt as much as the first time you found out.

It never got any easier. Oh what you wouldn't give to have him back, laying here with you, having breakfast with your son, solving murders with John. You wanted so badly to be mad at him, but how could you? You loved him too much and you missed him too much. Being mad did nothing but make you more sad, and you couldn't do that to yourself. You had to be strong for William.

It was yourself you were really mad at. You had planned to tell him that night about being pregnant, but little did you know he would fall from a building before those words could fall from your mouth. 

~

It was morning finally. You had suffered nightmares all night, the same ones you had been experiencing now for two years. You sat up, flailing your feet over the side of the bed and slipping into a pair of slippers. Then you walked to the closet and slipped on the blue robe. What can I say - I need him on mornings like this too, you thought. You could hear the rain pattering through the roof, and you checked the clock to find it was 7:15am.

You heard the slight sound of cartoons on the TV and you shook your head. Why your two year old got up this early, you had no clue. You followed the sound, rubbing the sleep away from your eyes as you entered into the brightly lit room. "William Scott why are you awake so early?" you asked, yawning at the end.

"Because daddy is home." You froze, removing the hands from your eyes. You dared to look, refusing to believe. But you did look, and there he was. Dressed in his usual button down shirt and overcoat. Same hair. Same smirk. Same cheekbones. As if he hadn't changed at all. He was sitting close to William, and they were the spitting image of a father and son.

"No, it can't be," you breathed, covering your mouth and closing your eyes in shock. Two arms engulfed you, and that familiar smell was back, and this time not from some clothes you were wearing. You continued to shake your head in disbelief, but soon a hand steadied it.

"(Y/n), it's me," he said. He lifted you chin, and you stared up into his eyes.

"How?" you asked, your voice cracking.

"I'll explain everything, but first, our son. I mean he is ours right?"

You nodded. "He two years old. The exact amount of time you've been..." you trailed off, not really sure whether to say dead or what.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows crinkled together in wonder.

"You left before I could," you said, answering honestly. Sherlock flinched slightly, like he was feeling the same bursts of pain and emotion you were. You felt anger growing in you, but the overwhelming amount of happiness you felt dominated over it.

"I'm s-" he was choking on his words, sputtering on air.

"I know," you said, hugging him tight and smiling as he kissed the top of your head.

"Mummy, daddy, you're blocking TV," yelled your son.

You opened your mouth to scold him for using his attitude, but Sherlock put a hand on your shoulder to stop you. "I'll handle it," he said with a smirk.

You watched him walk over to the couch and sit down beside his son. He didn't scold him, but just started talking about the show with him. Occasionally William smiled up at him like he was the happiest little boy in the world, and Sherlock smiled back.

So maybe he hadn't handled it like you would have, but you knew that he would have plenty of time to learn. You went to sit down on the other side of William, and Sherlock reached his arm over the top of the couch. He pulled both you and William closer to him, practically on top of him, making up for all the time he'd missed holding you both before.

A/N

Quick update. Probably will update around the weekend again sometime.

Time is flying by lemme tell ya haha

Also thank you for the continued reads, votes, comments, follows, EVERYTHING!!! Mumsy loves ya. Best children EVER. I only wish I could know you in real life... *sad sigh*

Random: How did you discover your first fandom? (Question courtesy of @marveltmntgirl)
(Well one day my cousin gave me a book to read... And boom I was a Potterhead.)

"Family don't end with blood."
- Bobby Singer (Supernatural)