#hows the daddy issues goin for us tonight lads

[dreamteammemes]

  You aren’t alone

               anymore

                     darling daughter, daddy’s home.

[sherlockholmesandhisinability]

Sherlock Holmes and His Inability to Sing.

“Oi, Sherlock! Put the bloody heater on- it’s freezing in ‘ere.” Whined Greg as he slammed the ice laden 221B door. Gossamer shards slid from the wood and landed on the pavement with a shattering crescendo, sounding like the twitching chirps of a wind-chime long forgotten and surrendered to the December robins.

“Brr, God’s sake- how cold is it in here? Lads? Lads?” He marched up the stairs and pressed his ear up against the door, before falling silent and listening. There was nothing to be heard.

“Right! I’m coming in!”

He stepped back, oblivious of the perilous drop of stairs behind him, and ran forward, throwing his body weight against the door and swinging it open violently with the power of his shoulder. He stumbled into the room and scrambled to his feet,

“Police! Police! John? Sherlock?!”

Instantly, sprang up a blanket woven around a slim frame and pulled over its head. It unfurled with such force that it couldn’t handle its momentum and so plummeted forward inelegantly.

“Argh, J-John? John?!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Sherlock, it’s me- Greg. You texted! Said it was an emergency. Ring a bell? God, I was panicking! Here, get up,”

He scooped the bundle from the floor warmly and held it by the shoulders. “You alright, then?”

“Yes. Fine.” Ached Sherlock as he wriggled free.

“Come on, you soft git- take that off and tell me what’s happening.“ He reached to unsheathe the man in the blanket, but he swerved and writhed his way to the desk. He sat down wearily and began to explain,

“John’s doing Christmas this year, but a ‘proper family Christmas’, so he calls it. With a bird of somesort-”

“A turkey?”

“Yes, that’s the one. And it’ll be just us; John, myself and Rosie. With presents.”

“Presents, eh? Oh lord no, not presents!” The Detective Inspector chuckled.

“Yes, presents, Greg. Do keep up. Anyway- it’ll be the whole affair and I don’t really know what to do about it.”

“Hang on. You called me over here in the middle of rush hour, because you can’t handle Christmas?! Bloody Hell, Sherlock! You’re a Dad now!”

“I’m not a Dad!” He screamed, “That’s just the issue! I am not a Dad! I am not Rosie’s father…” He paused solemnly, “But I am the reason she does not have a mother.”

Greg’s eyes softened. He sighed sorrowfully and pressed his lower lip into his other.

“Oh, Sherlock. I- I didn’t know- I didn’t know you felt like that. Heck, I didn’t even know you felt at all!” He placed his hand on the plush throw. “You can’t change what happened, but you can change what will happen. What’s the biggest issue you’ve got with the big C?”

“Rosie’s having a little concert with the children from the nursery later on today.”

“Yes, go on.“

“And the parents are supposed to sing with their children.”

“Oh, that’s nice. What’s it called then?”

Sherlock’s nose flared and he breathed in and out slowly, before spitting, 

“Mummy and Daddy Sing-a-Long Christmas Bonanza.”

“But… you’re two Daddies.”

“Yes, wait no! No and yes. Yes, that’s true and the name of the event is utterly stupid in every sense- and no, that is not the issue. The issue is… I can’t sing.”

“Now, come on! I’m sure you’re not that bad! Gimme a quick rendition.”

“No.”

“Go on. Just a quickie. Oh shit, I meant a quick one. Shit! A quick song!”

“No.”

“Oh, I see,” Said Greg as he shook his head, “I see the problem. You’re Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes! It’s not that you can’t sing- you just won’t.”

“Can’t, won’t, whatever. What should I do?”

“I think you should just suck it up and do it.”

“No,” whimpered the blanket. It stood and shuffled back to the sofa, where it’s sulking sessions usually took place. “No, that’s not what I wanted you to say!”

“I don’t know what to tell ya, Sherl. No, I don’t that. Sher…ly? Ack- no. Right, I’m off. Things to be done. Actual problems to be solved! I’m an important man you know!”

“If you are so important, then how does the station run without you?”

“It doesn’t! Oh forget this- I’m goin’. See you round. I’ll probably see you online actually! ‘Sherlock Holmes Sings ‘Jingle Bells’. What a video that’d be!”

“Ngh.”

“You’re gonna go viral! London loves you!”

And just like that, he was gone. The only trace was a trail of ice and water, mixed with the dirt from boots never cleaned.

“I won’t sing!”

Two shots rang out, as two very neat bullet holes were made in the wall. The sniper coughed feebly as the dull plaster snowed into the tussled mahogany mop that his face was buried in.

“Sherlock?!”

The door slammed again, this time with the brute force used to open it. The walls reverberated from the impact that struck the room. The same force plundered its way up the stairs, but slowly. Carefully. There was another force, a minute one, in front of it.

“Rosie, honey, go and play in my bedroom. Here, take my phone. There you go. Daddy wants to talk to Dad.”

“Okay Daddy, I love you, Daddy.”

“I know honey, I love you too. Now go on, go and play.” I said warmly as I advanced. Sherlock’s ears pricked up and he turned to face me. He sprung around with his dark hair thickly shot with grey.

“John! How was shopping?”

I gave him a hard stare. The coldest, most stern look on my face spoke only of rage and disapproval. I was just thankful I took that bloody Santa hat off outside because Heaven help Sherlock if he laughed now.

“The wall.” I grunted through my teeth. “I asked you not to shoot at the wall.”

“I didn’t think you were going to know. You were out, and you’re not the most observant of people.” He giggled.

I scowled more, carving the lines deeper into my worn face. “I think I’d notice bullet holes, Sherlock.”

“Can you see them now?”

I looked at the wallpaper. Black and white motif. It was useless trying to see anything, a high-vis jacket could get lost in that pattern.

“I- I… I- no. I don’t see it. But, that doesn’t mean you can go tearing up our flat just because you’re pissed about something!”

“Daddy,” toddled in Rosie, “Can I put my show dress on? My Chi- Crisna- Chra-”

“Christmas. Rosamund, listen, Christmas.”

“Sherlock, when you’re correcting our daughter, please be more-”

“Our daughter? John, no. This, it’s too much!”

“Dad?”

“Sherlock?

“No, no, no! I’m not her father, John, you are!”

“Sherlock.”

“I can’t do it!”

I tossed my head back ever so slightly, so I could swallow the bulge in my throat. I croaked, 

“Can’t do what, Sherlock?”

“This! Any of it!” He shrunk and crouched on his knees, eyes level with Rosie’s, and spoke firmly, “I will not be singing with you this evening, Rosamund. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And… Daddy might ask you to stop calling me Dad, okay Rosamund?”

I drew in my shaking breath and clenched my sweating palms. I felt my pulse raise and pound through my whole body. The heartbeat heated my burning face. I was so consumed with fury and despair, that the edges of my vision blackened and blurred, and I struggled to stay on my feet. 

“And why, Sherlock… why would I do that?”

“Because I am a terrible parent, an unfit guardian and a danger to those in this flat. I am not meant to be like you! Warm and affectionate and kind and-”

“Do you still want to marry me?”

“I, John-”

“On October 31st, just under two months ago, you got down on one knee- in this very spot- and tried to propose to me. I said ‘yes’ and it was amongst the most spectacular nights of my life. But if you don’t want to marry me, then, then, then leave!”

“John, calm down-”

“Do you want to marry me or not?!”

He looked into my bloodshot eyes and at the oceans flooding my face. I stood defensively, with the look of a wild animal stitched into my skin. 

He then looked down at the dainty girl staring up at him sorrowfully.

“I’m going out.” He stated as he wrapped the mauve scarf around his neck and grabbed his coat.

“Sherlock, Sherlock if I don’t see you at that ‘Sing-a-Long’-”

“Ugh!”

“If I do not see you at that event tonight, then do not even think of showing your face around here ever again! Do you understand me?!”

He looked at me expressionlessly and turned to face the door. He stopped. He thought. He continued and left me with my crying daughter, equally as broken as I was.

The hours passed and I found myself at the nursery with my face wizened by the bitter air drying my tears. It was dark, but Rosie’s face was bright with excitement. She was bounding up and down, and the light from her hands shifted as she moved.

“Careful honey, don’t burn yourself on that Christingle.”

“Okay Daddy.”

It was dark and melancholy. Though there was a warmth in my hand, there was none within me. I looked at my watch. Quarter to six. We started at six. I waved at Mums and Dads galore as I waded through the crowds of harmonious parents. I looked at so many faces, but I was only looking for one. 

I couldn’t forgive him, but I needed him to be here with me.

Six o’clock came and we all gathered at the front of the tiny hall. Grandparents and assorted relatives perched eagerly on the edge of their metal fold-away seats, with camcorders and flip-phones at the ready. 

On came the music from the CD player, ‘Silent night, holy night…’

“Wait! Stop! John! John!”

The hall was filled with the sharp echoes of wooden soles on a polished floor. From between the rows of chairs, ran a lanky suit, with a black case under his arm and a wide grin on his cadaverous face.

“Sherlock!”

“Daddy!”

“One moment! Terribly sorry folks, I will be just one moment!”

From his case, he produced an ornate violin and bow, much to the amazement of the octogenarians in the audience reciting the famous Detective’s name in awe.

He bounded up to the front and floated down gracefully to Rosie’s level and embraced her. He didn’t say anything, but simply crossed his legs, plucked her from the floor and placed her on the right side of his lap, with the instrument on his left shoulder. He tapped the bow on the floor jovially and waved at the elderly lady at the helm of the CD player,

“From the top, if you please!”

As the music began to play, Rosie giggled and shoved the flaming orange in her hands into Sherlock’s face.

“Da- Sherlock? Do you like my Chr- Cwi- Chee-”

“Christingle, my dear Watson, the word is Chris-tin-gle”

He then synchronised his notes with that of the music and occasionally played different ones, deepening the richness of the multiple tones of what otherwise would have been a very simple melody. 

He whispered lowly, “Rosie, dear, call me Dad.”

I wasn’t done with him just yet, but the walk home was going to be a lot less lonely with my fiance at my side.