Casting Light | a parentlock sickfic (Sherlock)

[VoOs]

 

I’ve been brimming with parentlock feels lately, as well as an overflowing love for the softer, kinder Sherlock of series 4. So, I wrote this scene between Sherlock and Lestrade, with little Rosie playing a small but pivotal role.

 

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On Thursday he goes to pick up Rosie at the daycare center, but she’s not the only thing he picks up.

Bloody plague zones, daycares.

- - -

Lestrade has just finished with his pitch; he’s leaning forward with the case file spread open between his hands, his expression weary but cautiously hopeful.

“…so what do you think, Sherlock? This vanishing corpse business? Something that tickles your fancy?”

Not his fancy, no, but something definitely tickles. It’s been at it for the better portion of an hour, too.

“Greg”, Sherlock begins and notes, not without some warmth, how the detective inspector still seems to perk up a little upon being called by his first name. After all this time.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me for a second.” He gets out of his chair and walks briskly to the window, peering between the curtains at the wishy-washy autumn sky outside. Not bright enough. Damn.

“What are you doing?”

“Dealing with a distraction.”

“What distraction?”

“Hm.” Sherlock crinkles his nose and sniffles with sharp emphasis, feeling the first hint of congestion partly obstruct the damp inhale. The common cold generally has an incubation time of between two to five days; this appears to be one of the more aggressive ones. “This won’t do. Plan B it is.”

“Plan B…? Oh, you know what, never mind. Just tell me if you’re interested or not. I need to get back to the station.” Lestrade’s tone is that of a man who’s already accepted defeat.

“In a moment.” Ignoring Lestrade’s more than a little exasperated “tsk!” behind him, Sherlock pulls the heavy curtains in front of the window, rendering the room dark.

Lestrade blinks at him, crestfallen, with just a hint of what fresh hell is this? written across his face. Taking what he believes to be the hint, the inspector takes a step toward the door, but Sherlock stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No need to rush off, inspector. Sit down, and I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“Sherlock, I really don’t have time for…”

“Oh, come on.” Sherlock sniffles again, the sound already thicker, fuller than it was a minute ago, and strides back to his chair, sitting down with a flourish of silk gown and long limbs. “I’m ill, and my doctor’s not in. Humour me.”

“When am I not humouring you?”, Lestrade mutters, but he does as he’s asked.

The sound of small, tottering steps, and John’s two year old daughter appears in the kitchen doorway, pigtailed and in purple dungarees, clutching Sherlock’s Turkish slipper in her arms like a plush toy and making wide eyes around the darkened living-room.

“Dark! Scary!”, she exclaims, sounding absolutely delighted, before waddling into the room and plopping down on the floor next to her father’s empty armchair.

“Isn’t she amazing?”, Sherlock says, actual wonder in his voice as he watches Rosie play with the slipper, pushing it across the floor while making soft car noises. “A filthy germ magnet, but amazing.”

“She is”, Lestrade agrees, with a slow, lopsided smile; this new, parental side of the detective is still going to take some getting used to. Then he remembers: “Hang on a second, isn’t that the slipper…? Did you remove the cigarettes?”

Sherlock looks genuinely offended.

“Of course I did”, he huffs, “how irresponsible do you think I am?”

“Only as irresponsible as you’ve given me reason to think you are. I’ve known you for ten plus years, remember?”

That actually draws a chuckle from the detective, but one that quickly turns into a deep, irritated cough, loosely aimed into the sleeve of his dressing gown. After recovering his breath and clearing his throat several times, his pharynx still feels decidedly sore and scratchy. Ugh. Better get on with it then, while he still has any voice left.

“You said the house where the body was found - and then lost again - was an old one? Early 1900’s?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, apparently it used to belong to this, uh…”, Lestrade looks down at his case file, squinting shortsightedly through the dimness, “polemology professor, Quentin Bottrell, who had the place built in 1919. It’s been renovated since then though, very fancy. Why?”

He looks up to see Sherlock steeple his hands in front of his face, but not to rest them beneath his chin this time, in his characteristic thinking pose; instead he clamps his hands on either side of his nose, scrubbing up and down and sniffling noisily, ticklishly, into the hollow formed between his fingers. When he lowers his hands and starts speaking again, it’s with the blunted, nasal articulation caused by a thoroughly blocked nose.

“You also mentioned that you don’t think it’s possible for anyone to have smuggled the body out of the house?”

“That’s the thing! The time window for when it could’ve happened must have been as short as three minutes, tops. And we had people swarming the place outside. I just don’t see how they could have pulled it off.”

“So your initial instinct was that the body had to still be in house, somewhere? Hidden?”

Lestrade nods. “Had to scrap that theory after we’ve combed through the place, cellar to attic, three times over. No trace, nothing. But m -” he falls silent, as he notices Sherlock’s narrowed, smiling eyes.

“But what does your gut tell you?”

Squaring his shoulders, holding his head a little higher: “My gut tells me the body is still in the house.”

“Polemology is the study of war”, Sherlock says, as though he’s just sharing an interesting trivia.

Lestrade becomes very still. 

“A professor of war studies has a house built… shortly after the end of World War I… he must have anticipated that a war like that might happen again… maybe he took precautions?”

“What ki’d of precautio’ds?” Smile even wider now, even as he sniffles damply against a raised wrist.

“An air-raid shelter, accessible from inside the house! Perhaps via a secret passage of some kind?”

“You know what, inspector, I’m really starting to feel quite unwell. I think I’m going to lie down for a bit. There’s the door. Use it.” And with that, Sherlock gets to his feet and walks over to the window again. Fishing a crumpled tissue out of his dressing gown pocket with one hand, he pulls one of the curtains away from the window with the other, letting the daylight flood his now darkness adjusted vision. Instantly his eyes flutters closed, tears wetting his long lashes as his chest swells with a rushing gasp.

“Sherlock, wha -?”

“- heh’IIESSCHHhoh!” It’s a body bending sneeze, saturated with crackling wetness and the immense relief of a release that’s been delayed for far too long. 

Lestrade opens his mouth to bless his friend, but before he can even finish the first syllable -

“hh! hehh! - eh’EEIISSCHHHUH!! Unnhh, not a minute too soon… ” A sigh, a cough, a firm rub at his nose through the tissue, and Sherlock finally straightens, blinking wetly like someone who’s just been shaken from a deep haze.

“Bless you!” Lestrade laughs. “That was some dad sneeze,”

“That was what?”

“Never mind. Feel better, Sherlock. And thank you. For… not taking on this case. Bye, Rosie! Make sure you take care of Sherlock now.” And he waves at her before disappearing down the flight of stairs, a fresh spring in his step. 

“I take care Shu-la”, Rosie asserts with a serious nod, abandoning her slipper-car on the floor to join Sherlock by the window. Once there, she pulls his right leg into a short-armed but unmistakably protective hug. 

“Good girl, Watson”, he smiles down at her upturned, round little face. “Though, it’s the least you can do, seeing as all of this -”, he gestures to his pale, tired, red-nosed face, “- is entirely your fault.”

“Shu-la sick?”

“Excellent deduction. Yes.”

“Daddy help?”

“Yes. He should be back soon.”

She releases his leg and grabs his hand instead, determinedly pulling him toward the sofa.

“That”, he says, with a heavy, clogged sniffle, “is the second best idea anyone’s had in here today.”

Edited January 29, 2017 by VoOs

[SneezyHolmes]

Holy cow this was both adorable and such a pleasant read! Thanks for sharing!  

[matilda3948]

 Oh my heart! I'm so so sooooo loving this! I'm actually working on a "the baby makes Sherlock sick" story too. So many good feels from this season.

Thank you for this!

[ID2006]

Love this, and hilarious comical bits added, brilliant!

[kushamisukii]

this is exactly what I've been dying to read. Ugh new favorite. This was so good, well written , cute and overall wonderful. More of this is all I want in life

[AngelEyes]

Awww. Cute.

[RiversD]

This healed me after the finale. Thank you so much.

On 29/01/2017 at 7:15 PM, VoOs said:

Not his fancy, no, but something definitely tickles. It’s been at it for the better portion of an hour, too.

This is the point at which I was sold, and the rest lived up to it nicely. You continue to be amazing. xx

[Shamaël]

I love the title of your story. Well, I love the story in itself, of course, but the title is great...

Your writing is amazing and Lestrade + Sherlock + little Rosie warmed my heart. As RiversD said, we needed it after the finale. Thank you!

On 29/01/2017 at 8:15 PM, VoOs said:

“Shu-la sick?”

“Excellent deduction. Yes.”

Maybe that's one of the best lines in a Sherlock fanfic, including non-fetishy stories...