Chapter Text
Doctor Watson sifted through the mail as he shrugged out of his coat and hat. “Sherlock, you’ve got another letter from your brother.”
The consulting detective glanced up from the post-mortem file he was perusing. “Open it, will you? My hands are full.”
“A ‘please’ wouldn’t go amiss,” John retorted, finding the letter-opener. “What’s he want this time, I wonder?”
“I imagine you’ll find out soon enough. Read it aloud.”
“Still missing that elusive ‘p’ word, aren’t we?” John muttered, unfolding the paper.
“Brother Mine,
Latest news from Ivy Hall is much the same: Mrs. Holmes is in good health. Charlotte continues to thrive. If you would care for a photograph of your daughter-”
The letter was snatched from John’s hands, about to be stuffed into Sherlock’s breast pocket, but John was quicker, grabbing it back.
“You have a daughter?!” He gaped. This revelation shocked the good doctor, for Sherlock Holmes had never made mention, never an indication that he had any such attachments.
“Really, Watson, is it so shocking?” Sherlock asked, miffed. He bounced on his heels, eager to take back the letter from his friend, who kept it out of reach, continuing to read it.
“You might’ve said you had a family!”
“It wasn’t relevant,” Sherlock responded with a shrug.
John’s mustache practically bristled. “Not relevant ? Holmes, you’re in London permanently, and they are- where the devil are they?” John turned over the letter and then the envelope to look for the post-mark.
“They are in Dorset, in one of the family estates,” Sherlock supplied, finally succeeding in taking back the letter.
“Well...why aren’t they here? How old is your daughter?”
“Really, Watson, what does it matter?”
“It absolutely matters, man! Out with it!”
“If you must know,” Sherlock sniffed. “It was a marriage of convenience. I needed money, she needed a husband.”
John looked positively flustered, trying to speak. “Oh...well...was she...er...that is-”
“Do spit it out, Watson.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Well...I expect lots of people have started off in the family way...before being married-”
“What? No!” Sherlock frowned, staring at his friend. “Her Uncle was a beast, he all but forced her to marry me.”
“You didn’t put up a fight?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh believe me, I did. It came down to her either marrying me, or a man of her Uncle’s choosing, who was nearly thirty years her senior and a drunk to boot.”
“So…you two are still married then?” John asked.
“Yes…” Sherlock blinked, unsure of where Watson was going with this line of thought.
“With a daughter…”
“Yeeeeeees…”
“And you’ve no idea what the child is up to, how she’s educated or how old she is?”
“Of course I do!” Sherlock answered waspishly. He paused then. Dash it all, how old was the girl? “She’s six,” he replied at last.
“But you never hear from her? Your wife, I mean?”
“No, of course not, why would I?” Sherlock asked, confused.
“She- she’s your wife .” John was flabbergasted.
“One who lives separately from me,” the consulting detective answered neatly, having picked up his violin.
“Yes but what about the child?”
“Mycroft keeps me informed, she is apparently growing like a weed, reasonably attractive, and clever for her age,” Sherlock recited his brother’s words, for they never varied. The child was always healthy, always thriving, always clever.
“What about your wife?”
“What about her?”
“I mean what’s she like, you dolt, obviously. What’s her Christian name?”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. Watson’s rapid-fire questions were to be expected, and when it came to the daughter he’d sired...well, it was fairly simple. He could state what he knew, for it never changed. He had a photograph of his daughter in his room on his dressing table taken at the christening. Dark eyes, darkish wispy curls peeking out from a white bonnet. But she was a baby...just a baby. Sherlock couldn’t very well form an attachment to a person he’d never met, let alone a little baby.
But Molly...
“Molly,” Sherlock answered at last. “And she’s...well, she’s not meant for London.”
“Is she ill?” John asked. He folded his arms across his chest, a sort of frown overtaking the good doctor’s features, an expression Sherlock knew to mean his ‘clinical face,’ the one he always wore when discussing a patient.
“Not that I know of.” Sherlock rosined the bow of his violin, studying the instrument. “She’d always kept in excellent health. Mycroft would have written if she was otherwise. At any rate she could never...no, it’s a fact that London is not a place she could be.”
Sherlock couldn’t explain it. Molly Holmes, née Hooper, had always seemed delicate. She was gentle and lovely and...soft. Sherlock had never seen such a shrinking violet, all peaches and cream and naivete. He could still see her, withering under her beastly Uncle, who liked to shake his meaty fist under her pert little nose. Sherlock recalled too clearly the tears hanging on her lashes as her Uncle held her arm in a vice-grip, fairly marching her down the aisle. Ironically, just a week after their nuptials, her uncle died, heart attack. Still, Sherlock knew his duty. A woman like Molly wouldn’t change just because the man who’d treated her like rubbish all her life was finally dead. She needed to be protected. In London she’d be swallowed up and churned out, just like the rest of the grimy public. Sherlock had no idea what Molly knew of the realities of his profession, but he was sure she’d be horrified. He could just see her expression, finding out how he solved murders, and enjoyed it. No, London would not suit Molly. There wasn’t a great deal he could do for her, but he wished to protect her from the harshness of the city, the ugly streets and the poverty and the nasty people that flooded the place. Sherlock relished the thriving pulse of the city; this was the epicenter of his beloved England, and he loved to be a part of it, solving the most puzzling of cases that nobody else could even come close to.
“Are you listening to me?” John’s voice broke through his thoughts.
Blinking quickly, he looked up. “I beg your pardon, what did you say, Watson?”
“I said you still ought to be ashamed, not even sparing a day to visit your daughter now and then. Poor mite, probably thinks you hate her.”
“She does not!” Sherlock looked affronted.
“Oh? How do you know?”
For a moment, he could only open and close his mouth, grasping for words. “Mycroft brings her a parcel from me twice a year.”
“Oo, very generous of you,” Watson retorted. “Do you even know what she likes? How she looks? How is her mother raising her? Maybe her mother’s a terror.”
“Molly is not a terror!” Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, imposing and terrible all at once. He checked himself, realizing the intensity of this reaction. “I mean that she lacks the ability to be cruel.” He sniffed again, finding suddenly he wished for his pipe and tobacco. “Anyway, as I’ve stated, Mycroft would have told me if anything was amiss.”
John stuffed his hands in his pockets. His stillness was unsettling. “Does she ever write to you? Your daughter, I mean?”
“Good heavens no, why would she?”
“Most children do start penning letters at her age, especially if they’re clever.” John shrugged. “It seems an awful pity that you’re missing out on so much time with your own child, wasting it in London.”
“I’m hardly wasting my time,” Sherlock countered. “I doubt Mrs. Hager thought we were wasting our time when we solved her husband’s murder while she waited on death-row.”
John shook his head. “You know what I mean.” He pointed a finger at Sherlock then. “There’s been plenty of times where we didn’t have a case, and you’ve lolled about here whining about how you were bored. Why not take the train out to Dorset, see your little girl?”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because she’s your daughter, you twit!” John nearly exploded. “My God, man, do you not know what you’re throwing away?” He stomped off then, pausing only to grab his hat from the coat tree. “That man,” he addressed Mrs. Hudson who was coming in with the tea tray. “Is the biggest buffoon this side of the River Thames.” With that he left the house, slamming the door behind him.
“And that’s saying quite a lot, being so close to Parliament,” Mrs. Hudson said, more so to herself as she set the tray down.
Left alone with his thoughts, Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder: did John have a point? Perhaps...perhaps not. Still, he knew staying put was best. If Molly wanted him in Dorset she’d have sent for him. She knew she only had to send word if anything was the matter. He’d made that quite clear. He’d never heard from her, so he could only assume she wanted nothing more to do with him.
And yet...there were times he wondered if he did right by her. On the one hand, yes, he’d given her the protection of his name, one of the family houses for her to manage on her own with no interference, and a child. The marriage contract her uncle and his parents had drawn up never specified how many children, only that a child ought to come about at some point or another. Sherlock supposed eventually, he might have to return so they could try again for an heir, but really, when would he have the time? Would Molly even have him again? He did admit he’d left in a rather callous way. He’d never handled goodbyes very well. A letter was left on the pillow by her sleeping form for her to find, explaining how he had not forgotten their original plan for them to live separate lives. That particular memory did cause him to wince in shame. He ought to have woken her up and told her in person and not taken the coward’s way out. He ought to have at least stayed until she’d given birth. Instead, as soon as it was certain she was with-child, he scarpered off to London, to the haven of 221B Baker Street and all the sordid cases he could possibly occupy his mind with.
Just as he was filling his pipe and settling down to indulge in a good round of guilt, Watson returned, shaking the rain from his hat, and dropping an envelope in Sherlock’s lap.
“There, stop your sulking.”
“What’s this?”
“Tickets, obviously,” the doctor replied, he tugged at the knees of his trousers, sinking down into his favorite chair by the fire and stretched his legs out to warm himself. “We’re going to Dorset the day after next, so you’d better have Mrs. Hudson pack your bags.”
“Whatever for?” Sherlock asked, removing his pipe from his mouth.
John didn’t answer, only looked at him, the points of his mustache curling upward. “Watson, no.” He was on his feet in an instant. “You’ve gone too far this time-”
“No, I don’t think I have,” John was out of his chair as well. “I may not be a family man myself, but I know a thing or two about what’s right! You’ve a daughter, Sherlock, a lovely daughter who’s growing by the day, who doesn’t know you from the butcher. Every child deserves to know what their father looks like, that he has some feeling for them, even if he’s rubbish at saying so. You’re going to meet her, you’re going to get to know her, even if I have to drag you there.”
Sherlock had no answer. He looked at the tickets in his hand again. “I...suppose if I’ve no choice in the matter.”
“None at all.” John shook his head.
“There’s no return ticket,” Sherlock said, looking into the envelope.
“Nope. Thought we could both do with a nice visit in the country,” John answered, heading to the stairs.
“For how long?!” Sherlock nearly roared.
“Just a month or two,” John answered. “You know it’s always dull as tombs this time of year, and far too hot. Air is much nicer in the country, especially this late in the year. Don’t worry, you’ll be back in London for all the autumn murders.”
“And what if my wife doesn’t welcome company?” Sherlock answered back. “Have you considered that?”
“Oh I doubt that.” John shrugged, a sly smile at his lips. “I stopped in on your brother at the Diogenes Club, and he has assured me his sister in-law likes nothing so much as company.”
Sherlock was well and truly stuck. Even if he tossed the ticket into the fire, John would simply purchase a new one. And, annoyingly, John was right. London was impossible in August. Stiflingly hot, and, regrettably, quiet.
“Of course you know, if a case comes up I shall be unable to go,” Sherlock called up the stairs as John retired to his room.
“Naturally,” John answered back. He decided to keep to himself the fact that he’d also sent a message to Scotland Yard that Sherlock Holmes would be out of town until further notice, and no casework was to be sent his way. Sherlock Holmes would meet his daughter and enjoy it, or John Watson would eat his hat.
Ivy Hall, Swanage, Dorset
“Charlotte, come inside,” Molly Holmes called out, standing on the staircase leading down to the grounds where Charlotte busied herself with some of the village children.
“Oh must I?” the little girl complained.
“Yes, I’m afraid you must. Children, you may go and find Mrs. Blevins, I’m sure she has a bite of something for you before you go home. You remember to wait for one of the grooms to see you back to the village.”
“Yes, Mrs. Holmes.”
“Thank you, ma’am!” all the children chorused together before they hurried to the servants entrance to the kitchen. If only her own daughter were as obedient!
Charlotte went sullenly up the steps to her mother, who put a comforting arm around her.
“I’m sorry to cut short your playtime, but I think it best to prepare you.”
Charlotte jerked away suddenly, not liking her mother’s tone.
“Is it Uncle Mycroft?” the girl asked, bottom lip already trembling.
“Oh my goodness, no, sweetheart.” Molly drew her close, cuddling her. “Nothing of the sort!”
Charlotte studied her mother then. Usually so calm and collected, her mother’s typically soft and happy face pulled into a more serious expression, one Charlotte was not entirely sure of how to read.
“I’ve had a cable, from your Uncle Mycroft. We’re to have visitors.”
“Are we?” Charlotte bounced up and down, eager. She shared in her mother’s joy of company. There was nothing Charlotte Holmes loved better than showing off Ivy Hall to new people, introducing them to her menagerie of pets, and bringing them down to the bay to collect seashells.
“My dear.” Molly’s voice stilled her daughter’s bouncing. “Your father is coming to visit.”
For a moment, Charlotte didn’t move. She chewed on her bottom lip, carefully turning over her mother’s words in her head.
“He lives in London, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.” Molly nodded. “He is coming all the way from the city, and he’ll be joined by a Doctor John Watson as well.”
“Is father sick?” Charlotte wanted to know.
“No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Why is he traveling with a doctor?”
Molly laughed. “I believe they are good friends. They board together in London. I imagine the doctor would like to get out of the city for a time as well.” Truthfully, Molly was glad for Doctor Watson coming along. It might make things less awkward, even if she’d never met him.
Still, Charlotte was unsatisfied. “But why is father coming?”
Molly nearly laughed out of sheer nervousness. “I don’t know, dear.” She kissed her forehead, smoothing her dark curls out of her eyes. “But they are coming. It isn’t as if your father is forbidden from coming here, you know. It’s his home as well.”
“Yes but why now ?” Charlotte hated repeating ‘why’ so often, for it meant answers were not being satisfactorily answered. She disliked it when nobody had an answer, especially her mother, for her mother seemed to know everything. Why was her father coming to visit all of a sudden? Her mother had never spoken an ill word about the man in the picture frame on her dresser. Indeed, she had never held back from answering any of Charlotte’s questions regarding him. But it seemed clear that he had no interest in them, or Ivy Hall or...well...anything to do with them.
Molly pushed the curls from her daughter’s eyes. “Perhaps he is fed up with your Uncle Mycroft’s short little missives, and wanted to see for himself how much you’ve grown.” Molly smiled a touch too brightly, hoping Charlotte would believe her.
She must have, for all at once, she broke into a beaming smile. “If we’re to have company, I must give the dogs a bath! And they’ll need their collars cleaned up too! May I ask Wiggins to help me?”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to.” Molly nodded, silently thanking that long-suffering footman who was most-often called upon to carry out a task for Miss Charlotte. “You mind to ask one of the grooms to polish the collars though, I won’t have you making a mess of your clothes.”
“But I must do it!” Charlotte insisted.
“Then make sure you have a pinafore on, one from the kitchen,” Molly relented. Charlotte hated to leave tasks for others, and when outside of the schoolroom with her governess, was often found working side-by-side in the butler’s pantry with the footmen, or in the stables with the grooms, cleaning her pony’s bridle or her dog's collars.
As the girl ran off to find the footman, Molly sank down onto the piano bench, worrying about the telegram in her hands.
“Sherlock Holmes, whatever are you up to?” she murmured to herself. While she had never encouraged her daughter to feel anything other than respect and love for her father, Molly could not say she had tried to feel those things for her husband.
Nearly six years had passed since his sudden departure. Mycroft said it was for the best, and Molly supposed he was right. Sherlock promised her she’d be cared for, and he had been true to his word. Ivy Hall was established for her own particular use; they even had access to the London house in St. James Square where Mycroft resided, should they have wished for it. They lacked nothing, to be sure, nothing except answers. Molly did her best with Charlotte, but there was a limit to her own knowledge on the man who’d given them their surname. Mycroft was tight-lipped about his brother’s whereabouts, though Molly eventually figured out he was in London. She read in the papers about Doctor Watson, her husband’s partner in solving cases for Scotland Yard. She was intrigued, if not hurt that he did not deem her fit to go with him to London on his adventures. His sudden departure still puzzled her. Molly had always thought they had gotten on rather well. So well, in fact, that she planned on asking him if he would not prefer to forgo their original plan, to live separately once a child was born. Those first few precious months together were all she had truly had of her husband. Well, those memories, and of course Charlotte.
Dear Charlotte! Their daughter was a mirror image of her father, sharp eyes, full of wonder at the world. Dark curls and a curious mind that begged to be taught, entertained, expanded. Molly knew quite early on that a governess would be necessary to prepare the girl for the world ahead. She wished for Charlotte to be educated properly. Perhaps one day she might attend a university, if that was what Charlotte wanted. Her mind was so eager, so vastly ahead of children her own age that to do otherwise would be positively cruel.
Still, clever as she was, Charlotte still loved to play. Oh how that girl could run! Molly was beside herself trying to find children who liked to play as Charlotte did. There were a few families that Mycroft had suggested, but those children all had nannies in tow, who forbade the children from running or jumping or playing in the garden. They confined them to the nurseries and quiet play. Molly couldn’t abide the stifling rules, recalling all too well how dull it could be. So, she asked the staff if they knew of any village children who would like to play with Charlotte. Baffled looks and hesitant answers soon gave Molly the information she desired, and she went herself down to the village and called on each of the families. It took some time, assuring them the children would be most welcome, and they needn’t worry about their dinners, for Ivy Hall would provide tea and anything else that could be needed. It became quite the usual sight, seeing the children in the village hurry over to the big house once their own chores were done to visit Miss Charlotte and Mrs. Holmes. They knew Molly was not actually a Lady by title, but everyone in the village called her so amongst themselves, for anyone who was so kind to their children, and indeed, the villagers themselves, was very near a queen in their eyes.
Watching her daughter’s retreating form, Molly looked at the telegram just once more. There was nothing for it. Sherlock was returning, and she certainly couldn’t forbid him. He’d every right to come and see his child. Perhaps this time he’d stay long enough to answer some of Molly’s questions as well. Living as long as she had on her own, Molly found herself digging her heels in. If Sherlock Holmes wanted to come home, then he jolly well could. She wasn’t sure if she hoped he’d be shocked or pleased at the way she was running Ivy Hall. Mycroft didn’t approve, he’d more than once chastised her for having ‘too lax a hand’ when it came to Charlotte. Molly couldn’t be bothered. The child was not spoiled; she was healthy, happy and was, for the most part, obedient. Molly would have liked to see any other child born in a great house who could boast the same. She and Charlotte had gotten on very well without Sherlock Holmes. They’d entertain their visitors for the rest of the summer, and then when they left, they’d be on their own again, which was how it was supposed to be.
If only she could hold onto that, and not let her hopes creep too high. It was just for two months, and then it would be all back to normal again.