READ THIS FIRST.
The scenario of the first chapter of this story is based on speculation from pictures taken from season 4 filming. It may turn out I (and many others) completely misinterpreted some pictures, but it's fan fiction, right?
I just REALLY needed some pining!Sherlock after seeing the baby on set. I need to write out how I think they could still get together with a baby. This idea would not leave me alone in school all day!
There was a hard lump in Sherlock's throat which he could not swallow. He sat in a chair outside of the hospital room, alone, sitting up straight as a rod. His tightly clasped hands shook. This is actually happening. This is actually happening. This is actually happening.
He was numb, and although the hospital was bustling around him, he could only hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He thought something would have come up, something that would have prevented the baby from being born. He never wished harm on John's child, no, but he just thought something would have happened that would have allowed John to be his again, back at Baker Street. He was foolish to entertain such illogical hope. Babies had to be born. It was simple biology. It had to happen sometime. He knew this since he deduced the pregnancy at the wedding reception, and yet he was not prepared for it.
Mary and the baby were currently being evaluated in the room behind him, and John, being the father, was permitted to be in the room with them. Sherlock had to wait outside. This whole thing was partly Sherlock's fault, because he hadn't driven to the hospital in time, and Mary gave birth in the backseat her and John's car. Sherlock had kept his eyes straight ahead the whole time, Mary's cries of pain and exertion mixing with the infant's wails.
"God damn it, Sherlock, drive!" John had yelled at him.
Sherlock did, but he couldn't control the bloody traffic. He knew why John was yelling at him, but it just twisted the knife deeper.
Sherlock couldn't look back at the baby being born. He wasn't necessarily squeamish, but he had zero desire to see the living proof of John and Mary's partnership come into this world (or see Mary's genitalia, for that matter). He had smelled the blood and afterbirth, and for a moment, thought he was going to be sick. But, he had a duty, so he kept driving them to the hospital, clenched jaw trembling as he heard John shushing and cooing at the infant.
That was thirty minutes ago, and Sherlock was still shaking. The car was in the parking lot, the blood probably staining the seats. He'd have to do something about that. Then again, it wasn't his car, but it was his fault she hadn't given birth at the hospital.
He released a quivering sigh. He remembered how John instantly switched into doctor mode, and calmly saw Mary through the delivery. He was always reliable in a crisis; it was one of the things Sherlock loved most about him.
Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek hard. He couldn't think about loving John now. He was barely keeping everything together as it was. He needed something to distract him, even if it was just for a moment. He took out his phone and slowly typed a text message:
John's baby has been born. SH
He couldn't think of the baby as Mary's, which was stupid, because she had given birth less right behind him, but he just couldn't. Something in the back of his mind prevented him from doing it. When he was high on the plane, trying to figure out what happened with Moriarty, he had completely forgotten she was pregnant. He had been so deep in denial, it was pathetic.
He sent the message to Lestrade.
Lestrade texted him back: REALLY? That's great! Do they want visitors yet?
Sherlock wished he shared Lestrade's enthusiasm. He gave him the hospital name and room number, although he didn't know if John and Mary wanted any visitors besides Sherlock at the moment. Oh well. He needed someone else there to alleviate the tension.
The door opened and Sherlock whipped his head around. The doctor and a couple nurses walked out, and the doctor turned to Sherlock.
"Are you with the Watsons?"
Sherlock nodded silently.
The doctor was smiling. "Mom and baby are both fine-just a bit tired. You can go see them now."
Sherlock gave a curt nod, but his legs refused to move. The doctor and nurses walked away, and he sat there, wondering if he should go in or make some excuse to go home.
He didn't have time to make up his mind.
The door opened again. It was John, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Hey," he said, sounding tired. "The doctor said they're both okay. She's perfectly healthy."
"That's good," Sherlock said woodenly, deciding not to say the doctor told him the same thing less than a minute before. He noticed that John didn't sound thrilled, either, but he wouldn't comment on it. It was good news, though. He couldn't wish harm on an infant. It wasn't her fault her mother tried to kill him.
John licked his lips, seeming unsure of himself. "Want to come see her? She's a lot cuter without all the blood."
Sherlock's lip twitched upwards despite himself. "All right." He stood up, legs stiff from being cramped in the small chair, and followed John into the room. He couldn't avoid seeing the child forever. Might as well get the first meeting over with.
Mary was in the bed with the baby in her arms. Despite looking utterly exhausted, she was awake, watching Sherlock carefully with her large, unblinking eyes. She looked like a cougar protecting its young, ready to pounce at the first sign of a threat. Sherlock's old bullet wound ached and he hated it, hated feeling even the slightest bit intimidated by her.
"There you are," she said with a small, fake smile. Her hold on the child tightened ever so slightly.
Sherlock's eyelid nearly twitched. "Here I am," he said weakly, making John laugh.
Mary's eyes narrowed, but Sherlock paid her no mind. The baby was wrapped in pink blankets, and his eyes instantly snapped to her. There she was: the nail in the coffin. The final step in John becoming a domestic, family man. Sherlock would have never guessed John wanted this life, but there they were (did John want this?). The baby was quiet, probably sleeping, and very small. Sherlock actually couldn't remember the last time he saw an infant. Were they always this small?
John chuckled. "She's a baby, Sherlock. You don't have to look at her like she's an alien."
"Oh, it's all right," Mary nearly cooed, and Sherlock never wanted her to use that tone of voice with him again. "You know he isn't used to this sort of thing, John." Her eyes sparkled, and she looked at Sherlock from under her light lashes. "He probably doesn't know what to do."
She had just given birth, and she still found the energy to get a dig at him. Of course. But then, Sherlock shouldn't have expected any different. This was just another way for her to rub it in Sherlock's face that she was a more suitable partner. She was good with kids, and Sherlock was not. At least, he didn't think he was.
John's left hand twitched by his side, and before Sherlock could say anything, he said, "I'm sure he's perfectly capable of holding an infant, Mary." He turned to Sherlock. "Want to hold her?"
A part of him really, really didn't, but a larger part wanted to get on Mary's nerves. "Certainly," he said as enthusiastically as he could (which wasn't very). John must have noticed, because he winced, and Sherlock cleared his throat.
Mary pursed her lips, and John went over to her, gently scooping the baby into his arms. "Hold your arms out," he told Sherlock.
Sherlock did, and carefully accepted the child into his arms. He cradled her head on his forearm, and held her tiny body with his left hand. She practically fit in his hand. She was awake, to his surprise, looking up at him blearily. She had dark blue eyes, but most babies did, although they would probably stay blue considering her parents' eyes, and wisps of blonde hair were peeking out from under the pink hat provided by the hospital. She had light brown eyebrows, which gave her expression and distinguished her from other babies with pale features. Her tiny nose was turned up, like John's (there goes any hope the baby wasn't his), and her tiny fingers were clenching the blanket. He slowly and carefully maneuvered her so she was supported by his right arm, and he brought his other hand up to delicately touch her small fingers, and was fascinated by the softness of her skin. She made a tiny little sound in her throat, neither happy nor sad. Just a random baby sound. Did the sounds mean something? Sherlock was a genius and he knew it, but he felt horribly out of his depth. Detective work didn't require him to care for children.
He realized he hadn't said a word for awhile, so he looked up. John was looking at him, eyes bright and tender, and his lips were parted in a soft grin. The harsh lines that took hold of his face since Sherlock's return were smoothed out, and he looked more content than he had in the past year and a half. Sherlock didn't think John ever looked at him like that, actually, and his heart gave a hard thump.
He swallowed, blinking. "John," he breathed, but didn't know what else to say. He looked down at her again, at her chubby cheeks and button nose, and Sherlock didn't understand the warmth he felt. This child had no personality yet, so it didn't make sense to Sherlock that he felt something for her, for this little person he didn't know. "She's beautiful," he said quietly.
John's grin widened. "Yeah? Yeah, she is. I'm glad you think so." His voice was thick.
Sherlock smiled, too, until he felt Mary's cold eyes on him. He looked at her, and her lips snapped back into a forced smile.
"She is beautiful, isn't she? If you don't mind, I'd like her back," she held out her arms.
Sherlock's smile vanished.
The beautiful look on John's face vanished, too, and all the harsh lines came back as a deep frown formed. "Mary-"
"I am the mother," she said, as if they had forgotten.
"Sherlock can hold her," John almost growled.
Sherlock was surprised by his tone, and subconsciously held the baby closer.
Mary glared at him. "I want to hold our child."
The emphasis on our was a deliberate jab at Sherlock, and they all knew it.
"Mary-" John started.
The door opened and Lestrade burst in, holding a pink balloon and teddy bear. "Hey!" he greeted jovially.
John seemed pleasantly surprised to see him. "Hey," he smiled. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"Sherlock told me," he said.
"Did he, now?" Mary's eyes shifted to Sherlock.
"Yeah," he said, oblivious. "How do you feel?" he asked.
"Oh, just tired," Mary shrugged. "It could have been worse. It could have been better, too, if I'd actually given birth in a hospital."
Lestrade's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Sherlock didn't drive us in time and I gave birth in the backseat of our car," she said pointedly.
Lestrade whistled, "Wow. You okay?"
"Yes, we're all healthy, thankfully," she said.
Lestrade looked at Sherlock and the baby. "You're holding her?"
Sherlock pressed his lips together.
John saved him by saying, "Yeah, he's actually not too bad." He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing. Sherlock was glad he had a firm hold on her, or he was pretty sure he would have dropped the baby.
He could sense Mary shooting daggers at him.
"I need a picture!" Lestrade said, putting down the stuffed toy on a nearby chair and letting the balloon float to the low ceiling.
John laughed, "Come on, Greg."
"I've just got to capture this," he insisted, getting his phone and holding it up to them.
Sherlock didn't know what to do. If he refused, he might hurt John's feelings, but he was never one for pictures, and he must not have looked his best.
Lestrade said, "Smile!"
John kept his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for the picture, and Sherlock offered a small smile.
Lestrade snapped the picture. "Perfect," he nodded, looking at it. "I'll send it to you two later." He turned to Mary. "I imagine you're not up for a picture right now?"
"You're correct," she said dryly.
"Right." He looked at her. "Can I see her?"
"Sure!" Mary said warmly.
Sherlock handed her to Lestrade. He wanted to go home.
Lestrade smiled at her. "She's adorable. What's her name?"
"We're still discussing it," John said.
"We're still disagreeing on it," Mary added.
John rolled his eyes. "We'll decide soon."
This felt too...domestic. Sherlock really wanted to go home. He felt bile swish around in his stomach.
"I think," he spoke for the first time since Lestrade's arrival, "I'm going to go home. You two are tired," he looked at Mary, "and will surely get more visitors."
"You don't need to go," John told him.
"John," Mary chastised, "if Sherlock wants to go, let him go."
Sherlock just nodded and looked at John. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to call."
"I know," John said, frowning. "You can come visit her anytime."
That's what it was now: Sherlock could visit John, but that was it. He was an outsider. Lestrade was looking at him, but Sherlock ignored him. He felt like he should say something to make it seem like he was okay with all of this.
"Let me know what you name her," Sherlock said.
John nodded. "We will."
We.
Sherlock buttoned up his coat. "I'll leave you, then. Goodbye."
They said goodbye to him, John looking disappointed, Lestrade looking confused, and Mary looking smug. Sherlock went home. He went straight upstairs. He couldn't bear Mrs Hudson's inevitable excitement over the baby yet. He'd tell her later.
He took off his coat and shoes and sat in his chair. It was dark in the flat, but he didn't bother to turn on a light or start a fire. The moonlight coming from the window hit John's empty chair.
Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and hugged himself, his eyes stinging. The painful lump in his throat was back, and this time, he didn't bother trying to swallow. He opened his mouth and a short sob came out, his chest contracting with a harsh breath. Hot tears blurred his vision and rolled down his face. He closed his eyes, trying to regain control. There was no use crying. It was all a done deal. John was living with his wife and child, and that was that.
He thought John's wedding was the worst day of his life, but he had been sorely mistaken.
I have no idea how long this will be.
