BBC Sherlock Imagines (Book 2)

Moriarty: Band Dad

Request for @cellophanediamond

~

"Grab me that knife, will you?" asked your father. He had his black pouch laid out on the kitchen table. The knives contrasted sharply against the circular innocence of your cereal bowl. You looked to your right, a large butcher knife that looked like it was sharpened to painful perfection was just out of reach of you. You hadn't even noticed it when you sat down; that was how used you were to being around weapons. But when you were Jim Moriarty's daughter, you just had to accept it and move on.

In another way though, you weren't his daughter. Sure he was your biological father, and had raised you by himself since you were the age of five when your mother was killed by enemies, but when he introduced you to his important colleagues they saw no resemblance. You didn't have the manic gleam in your eyes that your father possessed, nor the dark bloodthirsty persona of a sociopath. You didn't like to kill, you didn't like to watch a person be killed, and you didn't think the screams of people's last breath was music to your ears. Instead, you thought the combined sounds of a school band, and the soft but strong voice of your flute, was music to your ears.

This of course, was the highest form of disappointment to him. And in return, he didn't come to any of your concerts, competitions, fundraisers, etc. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that you, who would be graduating in less than a year, would rather go to a uni to become music major than stand by his side doing a more "important" job.

You wanted to say that he tried sometimes to sound supportive, but he usually just ended making a joke about you being a band geek, then would continue to work on whatever manhunt he was on at the moment.

"(Y/n)!" your father yelled harshly, and you realized you had been too deep in your thoughts to hear him the first two times. You looked up at him, noting the dark circles lining deeply under his eyes, the greasiness of his hair, and the unhealthy paleness of his skin. He was deep into a case. You could tell. He always looked like he was on the verge of dying when he was almost done.

"What?" you responded, an edge to your voice.

He narrowed his eyes, still not used to the whole teenage girl attitude thing. "You'll be late for school if you don't hurry up." You just nodded in response. You and your father didn't talk much these days, so you felt no need to respond. The only "bonding time" between you two was watching a violent movie together, but even then you could barely stand the comments of your father saying how he could torture that person way better.

Slurping the last of your milk, you placed the bowl in the sink and turned to your father. His back was to you, and from this angle he looked like a skinny hunchback of notre dame. "So you're almost to the end of your case I see," you said, walking past him to pick up your backpack and flute case.

"Yes, very close," he grinned. Now different guns lined the table, and a small pistol sat where you had moments before.

"So you can come to my marching band competition tonight," you said, not as a question, but a command. It was your first of the year.

He stopped what he was doing, his jaw flexing and you noticed him glare at your flute case, as if it was your little instruments fault you was not the assassin daughter he had hoped you to be. "I won't be able to make it."

"Ha, of course," you said, shaking your head in anger and heading towards the door to leave. "I don't know why I even ask," you muttered.

"How can you expect me to go?" he called, obviously having heard your comments.

You turned around, shooting daggers with your eyes, the only weapon you liked to use. He always said your eyes were scarier than his when you were angry. "How can I not? You are my father aren't you?"

"And you're my daughter, but I don't see you following in my footsteps."

"THEN GO TO THE FREAKING JUVENILE CENTER AND FIND A DAUGHTER THAT GLADLY WILL," you yelled. You were breathing hard now, and his mouth was hanging half open. You never yelled at him. "Meanwhile," you growled, "it should be easy to find a father that can swallow his freaking pride and would be more than willing to come support me for an hour." With that, you left the house and slammed the door behind you as hard as you could, hoping it felt like a slap to his face.

~

It was 6pm on the dot when you walked down on the field. The normal nerves ran through you, but you felt confident and ready. You still weren't off the high of yelling at your father, and now you felt like you could do anything, even win this whole thing (with the help of your other bandmates of course). Out of habit, your eyes scanned the crowd. You always looked for him, even though after 8 years, he never came.

You bit your lip, thankful that it was time to play. You walked to your first spot, and stood tall with your flute held high. Then you began playing.

You always got swept up in the music, and you loved the challenge of trying to remember your notes and get to the next position you needed to be. At this next particular part, you walked to the right side of the field, and the music of your bandmates swirled on your left side. You swelled with pride, knowing that your piece sounded just as good as you hoped it would.

Something caught your eye to your right. A baseball cap. The only baseball cap your father owned. You took your eyes off of the director for a minute, and it was him. It was your father. Your father that hated that you chose to do this for fun, he was here. He caught your eye and smirked. Suddenly you felt more invincible than before, and you finished out the song, and the next two, with the renewed enthusiasm of a true professional.

When the last note was played, and you marched off the field, you stopped feet from your dad, telling your friends to save you a seat in the stands. Your hat was heavy on your head, and you slipped it off,

You both just stared at each other. His eyes were soft, but you could still see the mania swirling around in them. You gulped nervously. Who would speak first? What would you say? What would HE say? Out of nowhere he stepped forward and smirked at you. Then he opened his arms, and in two strides, was holding you in his arms. You couldn't remember the last time your father had hugged you, or showed any positive affection towards you. You stayed there in his arms for minutes, like you were his little girl again that he loved so much.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I'm sorry too," you said back, your voice cracking with emotion.

He held you by your shoulders away from him, looking you over. "I am proud. Your band played.. well?"

"It's okay," you laughed, knowing he didn't understand stuff like this. "It just matters that you came."

"And I'll continue to come," he grinned. You nodded happily, hugging him again. He was surprised, but hugged you back anyway. You pulled away, looking up to where your friends sat laughing together.

"I should go," you said. "But I'll see you at home tonight."

"I'll be there, waiting to take you out to dinner to celebrate your performance." You grinned again, turning around. But as you were walking away, you heard your dad calling your name again. "(Y/n)!"

You walked back towards him a bit, slightly expecting him to tell you he remembered that he wouldn't indeed be able to go out tonight because of a planned murder or something. Instead though, he surprised you. "Maybe you can ask your band teacher person thing, to teach you all to play 'Stayin' Alive'!"

A/N

*raises hands* CAN I GET A "OOH OOH" FOR ANOTHER UPDATE!!!

T-minus 3 hours till I watch the newest Sherlock episode, so expect a reaction post to that

T-minus 3 days till I'm back at school, so expect less updates

Random: What are you looking forward to in 2017?

"And now it's all right. It's OK. And you may look the other way."
- Bees Gees, Stayin' Alive