An Awkward Situation....(a Sherlock story)

The discovery

Hey! So before you read, just some FYI. This is my first fanfic...ever, so I understand it won't be amazing. But I love kidlock, and in the depressing wait for Sherlock season five, which I am repeatedly told will not happen (which "surprisingly" doesn't help the probably endless wait (: )I was inspired by a fanfic I read. *Dramatic music* So I've started to clump this story up. Thanks for reading!

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John Watson lay in his armchair, staring at the ceiling with a depressed sort of slump. He'd started to date again, advice from Ms. Hudson, and it hadn't been very successful so far. He'd just gotten back from a rather nasty date with a Ornithologist. The dinner had been nice, he'd gotten through the conversation without mentioning, "Know that crazy detective that faked his death? I'm his flat mate."

But when he inadvertently ran over a pigeon driving home, a pigeon the woman claimed to be endangered, it had gone down hill after that. Lets just say holding a funeral while being accused of bird-slaughter wasn't exactly his ideal romantic evening.  

"Back already, dear?" John watched as Ms. Hudson scrambled into the flat, holding a bottle which was unmistakably filled with gin, and wearing thick sunglasses.

John, trying not to think of what she'd been up to shrugged, "Wasn't right for me. I think I need to listen to Sherlock. Making sure to look at the job descriptions."

Ms. Hudson gave a solemn nod, "I once went on a date with a man who claimed he was a dentist. Turned out he was an explorer from Antarctica who wanted samples of my toenails. Of course I refused, never saw him again."

"Oh...that's, grand." John muttered, sometimes Ms. Hudson was as bizarre as Sherlock, "When exactly did this happen?"

Ms. Hudson gave that innocent little smile-the smile John knew was not really so innocent- "Last Wednesday, after you went with Sherlock to take the case by Henry."

John-choosing to ignore Ms. Hudson's love life-leaned back into his chair. Sherlock had received an anonymous tip a few weeks ago about a recent homicide they'd been working on. After proving to be a valuable variable in solving the case, they'd searched for the who'd sent the tip. Several days later, on a completely different case, they'd gotten another tip from the same person. This time there was a note, claiming that he was aiding the cases so Sherlock would owe a favor. Of course that meant endless nights of Sherlock bouncing around the flat like a madman trying to figure out who the anonymous tipper was. John had barely managed to send Sherlock out to get some milk, or he was sure he'd have no chance for sleep.

Irritated by the sound of Ms. Hudson cracking her knuckles, John cleared his throat, looking at her expectantly. "I'd like a drink."

"Not your housekeeper," Ms. Hudson murmured, before getting up and leaving the room in a drunk sort of waltz. (Sorry if that doesn't make sense, I just had to add that line in somewhere...)

Sighing, John slowly dragged himself to his feet, making his way to the fridge and guzzling down what he assumed was coffee, cursing Sherlock for the presence of a decapitated limb waggling back at him as he shut the door. He never quite understood why the limbs-in this case, a hand-had to be by the food. Sherlock could at least use separate shelves.

He spent the next few hours or so crying at stupid sitcoms and laughing at romance shows. He'd just managed to restrain himself from throwing the remote at the T.V. when his favorite character from Supernatural died-again-when his phone buzzed.

Sloppily reaching into his pocket, he pulled the phone up to his ear, "Yes, what is it." He muttered, not in the mood for socializing.

"Am I speaking with John Watson?" A deep, rough voice barked through the phone, almost making him drop it to the floor.

He straightened stiffly, "Erm...yes. Who is this?"

"Where is it?"

John blinked, beginning to play with the hems of his sweater nervously, "Sorry?"

"Your boyfriend has it. Where is it?" The voice seemed to harden with every syllable, annoyance shredding his already menacing tone.

"Boyfriend?" John repeated, his voice growing heatedly. "I'm not gay!"

The voice chuckled, sounding almost as if he was scolding a child. "Fine. Whatever you want to call it. He has it. We will find it, he can't hide forever. Do you understand?"

"No," John began to stand, ignoring the rush of nausea that swirled through his stomach, "I don't understand." (Tee shirts on saleeeeeeeee...sorry.)

"He's working for the traitor. He's aided in the theft. He must be stopped."  

John's heart hammered against his chest as he checked his watch. Sherlock had been gone for several hours now, of course he'd gotten himself wrapped up in some life threatening situation. He should've known better than sending him out to get milk. "Who are you-"

But the call had ended, and John stood there, gripping his phone tightly. Couldn't he go at least one week without a death threat?

"John!" Sherlock's familiar voice-oddly high-rang as John listened to him swing the squeaky door shut. He didn't reply, deciding to give the silent treatment. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't done it before. He'd simply keep his mouth shut until Sherlock explained why he'd gotten a call from a dangerous stranger.

But Sherlock's footsteps were urgent, and unbalanced as he stomped up the stairs, followed by another pair of feet.

"Just tell him," A squeaky voice whispered-which wasn't really a whisper. Anyone within a ten foot radius could hear the rather sad attempt at a hushed voice.

Sherlock, whose voice was still a peculiar octave or two high, scoffed, "Obviously. It's not as if I can just hide it."

"Hide what?" John called, his curiosity getting the best of him. He'd risen to his feet, and was slowly making his way to the closed door. For some reason he didn't like the idea of Sherlock hanging out with people he didn't know.

"He can hear us?" The squeaky voice practically screamed.

Sherlock made a noise-a noise John knew meant he was preparing a snarky response. "Please, all of Europe can hear that irritating voice. Idiot."

John couldn't help it. He swung the door open and nearly slipped on his shoelace as he glanced at the two people standing in front of him.

A short, bald man with pudgy features and whips of a wannabe goatee stared back at him. He looked like a large walrus wearing a Star Wars sweater, with dirty fingernails and tainted yellowish teeth. His face, completely dumbstruck, silently eyed the person next to him before whispering, "Wasn't my fault, mate. He did it on 'is own."

John stared at what appeared to be a ten year old boy staring up at him with dull interest. The boys eyes were large, stunning blueish green with yellow flakes, with a thick mug of curly black hair. He wore a coat that was probably ten times his size, and his socks-his shoes were long gone-looked like blankets surrounding the boys thin feet.

Gasping, John took a step back, "Sherlock has a son."

"Don't be daft John, it's me." The boy drawled irritatingly, indeed carrying the same sarcastic tone in his voice as he pushed past and said to himself, "Where's my skull?"

-To Be Continued-