332A/N : Wow, I really didn't expect the massive response that I got to this story! This chapter has been technically ready for a while, but it took me forever to clean it up. This chapter was a b*tch to write, and I really hope that I kept Sherlock in character through out.
For those of you who asked, this story starts off in the last episode of Sherlock Season 3, taking up partway through it. Mary's duplicity has already been revealed, and Sherlock has been released from the hospital into John's care. There is a gap in the episode of several months where we don't really know what happened; this story takes place during that gap. If Mary and John weren't on speaking terms, I highly doubt that they would have been living together! All of this is explained in the story, of course, but I thought i'd make note of it here.
Sherlock Holmes had never been in love. It was, in his estimation, a useless emotion and a waste of energy best spent elsewhere. He had found himself interested in the intellect of certain individuals, of course, and some of them had been women. The first of these had been the fiery Lily Evans Potter - a women he thought little of in recent years.
Lily Potter had been in his life only a short period of time, but it had been long enough to leave a lasting impression. She had been passionate and intelligent, but woefully uneducated. Her schooling, she had insisted, had been of a very targeted nature, and he had found himself almost personally affronted at the very idea that subjects such as Chemistry and even basic English and Mathematics courses had been deemed unneccessary by the establishment she dared to refer to as a school.
In over a decade and a half Sherlock had not had any reason to think of the fiery young woman, however. The fact that she had been pregnant with his child had been evident, but he could only assume the young woman had chosen to terminate the pregnancy - especially if the reaction of husband had been as woefully inadequate as he had been informed. It had seemed for a time that he would become a father, and while the idea had been daunting he had been certain he could rise to the occassion. The idea that Lily would call upon him for any sort of support - aside from that of a monetary nature - had seemed unlikely, however. She had certainly assured him enough times that she understood he had no interest in being a father. And she had been right.
When she had cut off all contact with him, he had thus understood. If she had terminated the pregnancy - which seemed likely given the circumstances - then she would obviously not wish to continue their friendship. Particularly after it had been interrupted in such a way.
It had never crossed the detective's mind that she may have kept the child and given it the name of her husband. James Potter had certainly never proessed an interest in claiming the child as his own, especially when it had been so blatantly obvious that the child was another man's - that his wife had been unfaithful in the most basic of ways.
So when one Harry J. Potter appeared at his front door, Sherlock Holmes was woefully unprepared.
... ...
Harry had not debated his next move very thoroughly. Truth be told, he had outright refused to think about what he was about to do. Perhaps some part of him had known that, if he thought about it too long or too deeply, he would lose his nerve.
So when he was confronted with the older woman who greeted him at the door and assumed that he was a new client for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, he had not corrected her. He hadn't been sure how to, honestly. He had simply allowed himself to be led upstairs to the flat where his father resided with one John Watson - and wasn't that still an odd idea? That his father lived somewhere - anywhere. That his father had a flat mate, that he had a father he could talk to.
John Watson met him at the door at the top of the stairs, ushering the older woman away, and Harry allowed himself to be led into the cluttered room and settled into a hard backed chair that he could only imagine was reserved for the clients of the two men. Still the charade was kept up - he settled himself on the chair, settled his backpack to the side, and wiated for , the man to make himself comfortable.
But his eyes were trained on Sherlock Holmes. The curly-haired man was moving around the flat in a frenzy of energy, pacing back and forth as he waited to hear the details of whatever case had been brought before them this time.
"So, why don't you tell us what brought you here" John Hamish Watson. Harry had looked him up, too. Doctor, Army. Afghanistan. That information had been easy enough to come by. Previously a onfirmed bachelor, no previous marriages. Married to one Mary Watson. At least according to the news article Harry had been able to dredge up. The papers were quite interested in why he had all of a sudden chosen to move back in with his former roommate and leave his very pregnant wife behind, but Harry had long since learned not to pay attention to gossip and journalists whose very occupation centered around creating a scandal – even when one did not exist to write about.
Harry drew a deep breath, his eyes flickering to Sherlock before they focused on John once again. "I -" Quite suddenly, Harry turned in his seat. "Do you remember Lily Potter?"
The question was directed at Sherlock, and it took a moment for the taller man to process the fact that he was being directly confronted. Harry's sudden change of tactics had been quite sudden, however, so the teenager supposed he could forgive the man for his bout of confusion.
The name rung a chord with Sherlock, and it took him only a handful of seconds to place why it sounded so familiar. During his University days, one of his few friendly acquantances - to be honest, she had been his only friendly acquantance - had been Lily Evans Potter. Though not actually a student herself, she had been moderately intelligent and quick witted - a far sight better than many of his classmates. After she had left, however, he had spared her nary a passing thought - particularly given the circumstances with which they had parted ways.
Giving the teenager his full attention now, Sherlock took in the messy black hair, green eyes that could only have come from Lily (balance of probability), the pale skin and short stature. Right handed. Athletic, but only in his upper body. Underfed. Bag is small, but not packed heavily; filled with soft materials, possibly clothing. Expects to be gone at least overnight. Posture betrays his nervousness, actions betray his directness. Not a smoker, no signs of excessive alcohol use. Possibly fourteen years old, though the malnourishment may be affecting his apparent age. All of this Sherlock had gotten at first glance when the teenager had been shown into the flat, but now he focused on only certain aspects of those initial observations.
The teenager's dark, unruly hair reminded Sherlock superficially of his own, and his eyes were unmistakably the same startling shade of green that Lily Potter's had been. He had her short stature as well, though Sherlock couldn't discount the possibility that part of that may have come from the boy's poor eating habits. He was bone thin, but Sherlock really wasn't one to talk - he himself had been unhealthily thin on more than one occassion. Not that he minded, of course; his own body was simply transport for his intellect. Still, he had learned long ago that such physical signs could lead to deductions of the boy's mental status and physical daily life, and so he filed the information away for later perusal.
In short, the teenager had all the physical characteristics that could lead one to believe that he was the child of one Lily E. Potter and Sherlock Holmes. And while there was the very large possibility that the teenager might be attempting to capatalize on that chance in order to coerce monetary compensation from him, the fact remained that few people had even been aware of his relationship - such as it had been - with Lily Potter. Of those who had been aware, even fewer had been made aware of her name. The majority of their time had been spent in the solitary confined of his single occupancy dorm room, after all, debating any number of subjects without the distractions of the utterly mundane and boring students he was forced to interact with on a daily basis.
Coming to stand behind his own chair, Sherlock placed his hands on the back of it, leaning his weight slightly forward as he locked eyes with the teenager at long last. "So. She didn't terminate."
... ...
By this time, John Watson was thoroughly confused. Sherlock's first spoken words only served to confuse the former army doctor even more. And though John couldn't even begin to guess what his friend meant by "terminate", the young man before them seemed to instantly understand.
"I - No. She never even mentioned it. In her journal, that is." In a frenzy of movement, Harry was suddenly digging into his backpack, before pulling out a weathered leather bound journal.
The leather bound journal had seen better days, damaged as it had been by the elements and repeated handling by both Lily Potter in earler years and Harry Potter in more recent ones. Harry held it gently in his hands now, as though he were afraid it would break if he were too rough with it.
And for Sherlock Holmes, that in itself was telling.
"When did she die?"
Harry paused, frowning, before he answered. "When I was a baby." He opted for silence now. He had read about the man's ability to read a person like a book, of course, but he had never been subjected to it before. Hearing about it and experiencing it were two different things.
Still, it wasn't as daunting as he had been expecting. He certainly hadn't been insulted to the point that many journalists seemed to claim he treated prospective clients.
"That journal is the only connection you have to your mother." Sherlock stated flatly, his dark eyes boring into those of his son. His son. The thought gave him pause, but only for a moment. Paternity tests aside, he was beginning to believe the young man's claim, and there was no logical reason to refer to him as anything other than what he appeared to be. "This suggests that you either were not raised by relatives or friends of your mother, or that they refused to speak of or allow you near her former possessions."
Harry stiffened slightly at that, and instantly wished that he hadn't. If these few moments with Sherlock Holmes had taught him anything, it was that the man would instantly notice - and read far too much into it.
"You guard this singular possession carefully; this suggests that you expect it to be taken from you. The latter, then." Sherlock pushed himself away from the chair, clasping his hands behind his back and taking the few steps that would allow him to settle his tall, lanky body into the chair properly. Crossing one leg over the other, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and tapped his fingers against the arm rest, continuing his scrutiny of Harry in silence for a moment.
Just long enough for John to speak up. "I'm confused."
. . .
For the past several months, John had returned to the apartment at 221b Baker Street with Sherlock. The other man still wasn't completely well after a gun shot wound that had been delivered by his own wife - his own pregnant wife who had lied to him about every aspect of herself and her history. A wife he hadn't spoken to in in several months..
Sherlock had only recently returned home from the hospital, and then it had only been because he happened to live with a doctor who could watch over his recovery from the relative safety and comfort of his own home. Personally, John was of the opinion that the hospital staff were simply tired of putting up with Sherlock's antics and constantly having to track the man down after he had attempted - and usually succeeded - at another escape attempt. His recovery was taking much longer because of these excursions, but Sherlock seemed willing enough to remain in the apartment as long as he was given some sort of work to occupy his mind.
But John hadn't been expecting this. It wasn't a case - and Sherlock was being almost nice. Not nice compared to other people, perhaps, but for the esteemed Sherlock Holmes it was as close to "nice" as John had ever seen him behave. It reminded the doctor, suddenly, of Sherlock apologizing to Molly. It had seemed so out of character, and yet the man had been sincerely apologetic for the way he had hurt the young man - a young woman who so obviously cared for him.
Harry turned his attention to John, though he didn't seem as grateful to focus on the doctor as many of their clients generally were. If anything, John thought he had detected a flash of irritation in the teenager's eyes. But that couldn't be right.
"I'm sorry. My name is Harry Potter. Sherlock - that is, Mr. Holmes …" Harry paused, unsure how to frame this politely, but Sherlock saved him in the end.
"He's my son."
Hearing it said out loud like that, Harry found, was almost earth shattering. Having somebody actually claim him like that … it was different from when Hermione or Ron would claim him as their friend, even their best friend. This was a parent, a member of his family who didn't automatically hate or distrust him. And that was something he had never experienced before.
"I'm sorry, what?" John had physically turned his body toward Sherlock now, and the other man gave John a withering stare.
"Really John, it isn't that difficult. Biologically, Mr. Potter would appear to be my son. The evidence is quite strong, though of course a paternity test will need to be conducted."
Sherlock leaned forward, ignoring for the moment John's dumbfounded stare. "What I want to know, is what you're doing here."