BBC SH - Lullabies - B

It was very rare to catch Sherlock Holmes humming.

Occasionally the odd bar of a violin tune as he was composing, yes. But it was highly uncommon to find him with a song stuck in his head.

But John Watson was a clever man, and he had spotted a pattern.

When Sherlock texted Ophelia, occasionally John would find him gently murmuring a tune to himself as he typed.

He didn't put two and two together until a few weeks later when a song came on the radio.

At the beginning of the tune, Sherlock looked up.

He never looked up normally.

After a moment, John realised that it was the same song that he caught him humming very so often.

A piece of a puzzle slotted into place in his head.

"Is this the song then?" He asked.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said, distractedly.

"You said that the only song you can vaguely tolerate is a song that you used to sing to Ophelia when she was little. To judge by your reaction when this came on, I'm guessing it's this one."

"Very good." Sherlock said, nodding at John's thought process.

"Odd." John considered. "I wouldn't have thought this your type of song."

It was true. The lazy swing-era song was rather different to Sherlock's violin classics.

"It's not." Sherlock admitted.

His phone beeped.

Our song's playing. OH

He smiled.

I know. SH

"Why this one then?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It had been on the radio earlier and it got stuck in my head."

"Songs don't normally get stuck in your head."

"They used to when I was on a cocaine come-down." Sherlock admitted.

John left it at that, not wanting to pry.

Sherlock just listened and remembered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was slumped on the sofa at his old flat, fighting a sense of self-loathing.

He'd cracked.

He hadn't had a case and the powder had been there, even though he'd been so sure he'd got rid of all of it . . .

A soft fifties-style swing tune came on the radio. He tried to ignore it for a few minutes before angrily stabbing the off button.

He fought the depression seeping into his brain. Ophelia was here. He couldn't have her noticing there was anything wrong and reporting back on him to Mycroft.

The last thing he needed was his big brother mothering him . . .

He heard a thump from his room.

His ear pricked round, instantly alert. Ophelia should have been asleep. It was ten o'clock at night and she was only five.

He got to his feet and walked quietly along to his room, pausing outside his door.

He heard a wet breathy whimper and froze.

She was crying.

Oh no . . .

Instantly panic seized his stomach. He hadn't come across Ophelia crying before. He had genuinely no idea how to deal with it.

Hating himself for his cowardice, but not seeing any other option, he made to begin tip-toeing away, hoping Ophelia hadn't noticed his approach.

But then a broken little voice sobbed his name from beyond the door and he stuttered to a halt.

He stood there, conflicted for a long moment, before clenching his fists.

Sherlock Holmes, if you ruin this I swear . . .

Swallowing hard, he opened the door.

Ophelia must have had one hell of a nightmare as she had thrashed clean off the bed. His sheets were damn near torn off the mattress and she lay huddled on the floor in Sherlock's duvet which had tumbled with her.

"Ophelia?" He asked, uncertainly.

"S-S'rry Uncle Sherlock." She mumbled, attempting to hide her tears from him. "Had a nightmare."

Sherlock instantly sympathised. The cocaine was good for dulling his dreams, but it just made his sleep on the nights where he was clean even more horrific.

"What about?" He asked, as he yanked the sheet back into place.

She shook her head. "Can't remember."

"Liar."

Her lower lip spasmed wretchedly and Sherlock kicked himself for his insensitivity. He was still getting used to reading people's emotions and he still missed more than he got right.

"I'm sorry, Ophelia." He said, awkwardly retrieving the pillows. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

His niece just stared at the wall, eyes stained red with tears.

Sherlock paused for a moment. Instinct fought with logic for a long moment before the former won.

He stooped and bundled Ophelia up in his duvet, picking her up.

However, instead of placing her back on the bed, he sat down on the mattress and held her in his arms.

He had read somewhere that body contact was good for soothing upset children. Odd that that particular bit of information had been retained by his hard-drive, he reflected.

_{"dr'mt 'bout l'sin y'."}  Ophelia said in a tiny voice.

Sherlock looked down, not having heard. "Sorry?"

"Nothing." Ophelia mumbled.

Sherlock mentally replayed what she had said.

Then it hit him.

I dreamt about losing you.

He felt like someone had round-house kicked him in the stomach.

He tightened his grip slightly. "You're not going to lose me."

"You can't promise that." Ophelia said, miserably.

And you're five, you shouldn't know that yet . . .

"Ophelia, what happened?" He asked, finally. "You never have nightmares, what brought this one on?"

"Mum came back." She whispered.

"Oh . . ." Sherlock cast his mind back to Ophelia's mother. And, as always, immediately regretted doing so.

"She didn't recognise me." Ophelia said, hunching further into the duvet. "She said to Dad that she thought I was Cousin Greta's daughter."

Sherlock frowned. Their cousin Greta and her family were the few examples of those who missed out on the Holmes skinny gene. They were all rather larger than was healthy.

Particularly their little five year old daughter who was practically spherical.

Sherlock mentally slapped himself. So that was why Ophelia hadn't eaten her tea.

How precisely to go about telling a five-year old that her mother was a sociopathic queen of the New York fashion world who thought nothing of emotional blackmail in an attempt to mould her minions and models and apparently now even her daughter into the body shape that suited her warped view of the world best?

Sherlock loathed Ophelia's mother. She had all the brains of him and Mycroft. But none of the honour that drove Mycroft to serve his country and Sherlock to remove the dangers from the streets of London, preferring instead to stave off boredom through petty games of manipulation against shallow, gullible fashionistas.

Mind you, Mycroft had only married her due to the fact that their mutual intelligence would ensure the Holmes' genetic predisposition towards genius would continue unhindered into the next generation.

Sherlock bit his lip. "Ophelia . . ."

"I know I'm not fat." She said, weakly. "I just don't understand why she'd lie to me about it."

Sherlock sighed, throwing caution aside. "Because, I'm sorry Ophelia, but your mother is severely unbalanced in the head . . ."

Instead of the shout of protest he'd been expected, his niece just nodded glumly.

He blinked hard. He was getting to the edgy stage of the come down, he needed to help her back to sleep and quickly so he could go and twitch in private.

"Cheer up," he said, in a terrible parody of cheeriness. "You've always got me."

And then Ophelia looked at him and he realised how stupid he had just been.

"Of course." He sighed, his voice slipping back into his baritone. "That's why you had the nightmare, because I am all you have so if I go . . ."

Ophelia's eyes welled up again and Sherlock kicked himself for thinking aloud.

That is IT! No more cocaine if Ophelia's due to come round!

He hugged his niece closer, understanding a bit better now. "I'm not going anywhere."

His niece didn't react.

He looked down at her tentatively. " . . .'Phee?" He said, hesitantly.

At the previously unheard nickname, Ophelia looked up.

Her uncle looked very young all of a sudden, but there was a new found sincerity in his face. "I promise." He said, quietly. "I promise I won't leave you."

Ophelia looked at him for a long minute, and Sherlock was gratified to see a small degree of hope creeping into her eyes. "Okay." She whispered finally.

Sherlock nodded, filled with a quiet, distant sense of relief. "Come on, let's get you to bed.

"Uncle Sherlock?" She said, as she crawled back into bed and he placed the covers over her.

"Mm?"

She hesitated before blurting out. "Stay with me until I fall asleep?"

He blinked. "Oh . . . Alright?"

He sat next to the prone Ophelia, his back against the headrest.

After a moment, his hand extended to awkwardly pat her head.

"Er . . . I'm not sure of the etiquette here." He admitted after a moment. "Do I talk to you or do I keep quiet?"

Ophelia managed a small laugh at her Uncle's naiveté, a sound that gladdened Sherlock to hear it ever so slightly. "Not sure. Dad just sticks on a CD and leaves me."

Sherlock made a mental note to glare at his brother even harder the next time he saw him. "But doesn't the music keep you awake?"

"No, 's soothing." Ophelia mumbled, turning her face into the pillow.

Sherlock thought for a moment. His violin was in the other room but, if he so much as shifted on the bed in a way that looked like he was about to leave, Ophelia's head would rise ever so slightly and her body would tense in distress.

The song from the radio whispered from the back of his mind.

He looked down at his niece. Her eyes were rimmed red with tears and tiredness.

He sighed and pulled her up so she was lying in a bundle of pillow and blankets on Sherlock's chest.

But, before she had a chance to voice her confusion, a quiet voice was singing in her ear.

Softly,
I will leave you softly,
For my heart would break,
If you should wake,
And see me go . . .

The song had been sung by an Englishman in an American accent originally, because swing songs sound strange with any other accent, and it had given the song a seductive glamour.

But Sherlock's voice was quiet and sincere and his clear, clean accent gave his tentative singing an unintended sense of purity.

Ophelia's grief-stained heart lightened slightly as her mind registered just how rare it was for this man to behave like this.

Just for her.

So I leave you softly,
Long before you miss me,
Long before your arms,
Can beg me stay,
For one more hour,
Or one more day . . .

Sherlock's fingers weaved into his niece's curly hair, so very much like his own. Not knowing why he was trying so hard for this inconvenient daughter of a man and a woman he hated.

Knowing only that he wanted to try harder.

After all the years,
I can't bear the tears to fall . . .

Ophelia's drowsiness was winning over her desire to continue listening to her uncle singing.

Her lashes brushed her cheeks as sleep coaxed her to close her eyes while she listened, just for a second . . .

So softly as I leave you there . . .

Sherlock carefully shifted Ophelia off his chest and onto the mattress, ensuring the blankets didn't slip.

As I leave you there,

Her eyes didn't open; her breathing already deep and steady.

Sherlock felt a faint sensation of pride at the sight of his niece now sleeping peacefully.

Already entrenched in a far more pleasant dream in a world of softness and song, Ophelia didn't feel the lips which were touched gently to her forehead.

As I leave you there . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock's phone buzzed again, jolting him from his reverie.

You were right you know, my Mum is off in the head. OH

He smiled.

Any woman daft enough to marry your father has to be. SH

A pause.

A beep.

Thank you. OH

A frown.

What for? SH

A pause.

A beep.

You kept your promise. OH

Sherlock's expression softened.

Fifteen years later.

Fifteen years later and he still hadn't left.

"You two are going to kill your credit at this rate." John teased gently, but he was pleased rather than irritated by the continual exchange of messages and especially with the unusually tender expression on Sherlock's face as a result.

"Worth it." Sherlock said, quietly, as his fingers typed out the reply.

John smiled but did not press the matter. Sherlock and Ophelia's relationship was their own special little thing which he observed only from a respectful distance.

But he was glad they had each other.

Sherlock finished the text and looked briefly towards to photos on the mantelpiece.

John.

John and him and Gladstone.

John and him and Mrs Hudson.

Him and Ophelia.

Him and Ophelia.

Ophelia.

His eyes fixed on his niece's picture and a small happy bubble of contentment in his heart, Sherlock hit Send.

Yes, and I always will. SH