Okay, okay...inspiration hit, and I couldn't leave my past two stories, "Just A Magic Trick" and "text" hanging. So, here's another continuation, in story format. Enjoy and review!
It didn't take long for John to get from Windsor to the London hospital. Mycroft had sent a helicopter, and John arrived around eleven o'clock. Mary had just given birth to a girl-his girl-after an ordeal he wasn't present for. He'd tried to text the mysterious "SH", who had saved the day earlier, defeating one of Moriarty's men in order to get to Mary, but he received little other information from the consulting detective, who had stopped texting him after a brief: "Congratulations. -SH."
John had to take the stairs from the helicopter pad, and he was met halfway to Mary's floor by Mycroft Holmes. He stopped in his tracks.
"Mycroft, what're you doing here?" he demanded.
"Well, it is my vehicle, after all. I'm seeing it got here alright."
"Yeah, it did. Anything else?"
"John." John scoffed, knowing there was more. "I'm sure you've had a very confusing night. I'm here to let you know what's happened on the London side of things." John pursed his lips impatiently.
"Look, Mycroft, I'm sure Mary can explain all that to me just fine."
"No." It was Mycroft's usual, long no, the one that simultaneous lasted seconds and minutes of inner dialogue. "I'm sure Sherlock Holmes could, however."
John's chest rose considerably as he took a deep breath through his nose. "I should let him tell me, then."
"That would be...unwise."
"Mycroft, I'm going to see my wife."
"She's still unconscious. She fainted once she got into the ambulance. We have time."
John shrugged. It was useless to fight. "Fine. What happened?"
"Moriarty's man, Moran...he set a fire around your townhouse. We have reason to believe he knew Mary was pregnant, and that she would go into labour at that time."
"Good for him. Why'd he do it?"
"Moriarty had many rivals, but the friends he did have appear to have been extremely loyal. They've been watching you, John. Looking to punish you for what Sherlock did to their leader."
"Moriarty killed himself. There's proof of it."
"I didn't say they were rational." Mycroft paused. John got the intense feeling that he was stalling for time. "With the fire present, the ambulance couldn't make it through-the fire department couldn't get a clear way in, either, not for a few minutes. Moran, however, was already inside the ring. He tried to get in, likely to kidnap Mary, or her baby."
"Where is my daughter?" John needed to see his baby. He could feel the space in his throat swelling up with desperation.
"She is safe."
"Where?"
"I assure you, they are both well-protected." A meaningful look, and then he continued. "Moran didn't last long inside the house, and I'm sure you know why."
"How long have you known? That He was alive...how long have you known, Mycroft?" It was a forward, direct question. An unnecessary question, but important to John.
Mycroft sighed in response, the guilt written all over his face.
"You're a tit." John had known, of course. Part of him had always known. "Are we done?"
"Not quite. You need to make a decision."
"What's that?"
"Are you ready to see Sherlock again, John?"
It was something that John had spent so much time considering, but had never come up with a proper answer. Not, 'Do I want to see him?' or, 'What will I say when I see him?' but, 'Am I ready?'
"Yes," was the best response.
"And you realize that this would place you and your new family into some danger?" John exhaled: he hadn't thought of that.
"I think you'll keep a better eye on us, from now on," he answered defiantly. Mycroft nodded, looking somewhat embarrassed. "Now are we done?"
"Go on," Mycroft moved out of John's way. He bounded down the stairs-he knew the hospital well, having done a few special surgeries there over the years. Finally, when he reached the maternity floor, he had a decision to make. He could run to the waiting room, where his old friend would be sitting awkwardly, or to his wife's room, where she was unconscious. Or, he remembered, to my baby. His little girl. It was an easy choice.
John had to walk now that he was in the hallway, but he did so as quickly as he could. Finally, he reached the window, with all of the new infants. There were only four tonight, and it was easy to pick his out, for she was covered in a blanket Molly had badly knit for her and had an extra thick little beanie cap that most premature babies wore. The text hadn't been untrue: she was beautiful. John couldn't keep from tearing up a little as he looked at her, wanting so badly to hold her.
"What will you call her?"
John gasped, and frantically wiped at his eyes. "Um...Emma. We're going to call her Emma."
"Any particular reason?"
"Mary's aunt. Died a while back."
"Hm," was the only answer John got. He stared at Emma, not just because of her beauty, but because he couldn't bring himself to look at the shadowy figure next to him. He didn't even know how he was still standing after hearing that deep, familiar voice.
"You never texted me back."
"Can't text in a hospital. You should know that."
"Right. Damn. Lestrade knows you're here, then?" John changed the subject.
"Yes. I had him take Moran out of the city, didn't want him in the same hospital as your family."
"He needed medical attention?"
"Once I discovered he was still breathing, yes."
John laughed by accident, clearing his throat quickly to cover. Had he been looking, he would have seen the taller man grin slyly. "How'd he react? Lestrade, I mean."
"He made fun of my hair."
"What's wrong with your hair?"
"See for yourself."
John sighed and did not answer, his gaze lowering to the floor. He could see two pairs of shoes: one, his standard white and black runners and two, a pair of black dress shoes. There was no sign of the long, wool coat he'd once known so well. A thought suddenly occurred to John. "Wait...Mary didn't deliver in the ambulance...unless...did she deliver unconscious?"
A beat. "No. She delivered in the house."
John's eyes widened. "But...the smoke!"
"The fire was put out quickly. It took some time for the paramedics to get through the rubble." It suddenly occurred to John that his house was probably in ruins. The man next to him appeared to read his mind. "Mycroft has already promised to pay for all the...damages."
"Generous of him."
"Not really. Just the front and back rooms."
John shrugged. He and Mary kept most of their valuables in the second floor. "So...if there were no paramedics...and she delivered in the house..."
"You could say it was a...bizarre...introduction."
And then John laughed, not stopping himself this time. The image of-of the man next to him-meeting Mary and then immediately delivering her first-born was completely ridiculous.
"Well...thanks."
"Women have been giving birth outside of hospitals since the beginning of time. I'm sure you, being a doctor, know that it's not particularly difficult."
"I'm not that kind of doctor."
"The skills are quite transferable."
"Part of me is glad I didn't have to do it. She can be a little rough sometimes, in stressful situations."
"She kicked me in the eye."
"Did she?"
"Yes. Got me a stitch."
"That's my girl."
It was so easy: it was the same banter, the same ease of conversation. But everything was different. Everything was simultaneously old and new, as if John and the man were caught in a black hole of endless time.
"I do mean it, you know," John said slowly. "Thank you. For what you did tonight. I don't know how else to say it."
"I'm just glad I made it in time." The two men were silent. So isolated, but so connected. "John, I hope I don't need to tell you how glad I am that you refrained from...that you didn't..." A deep breath. "Thank you...for not killing yourself."
John gasped, almost looking at the man. "What are you talking about?"
"Your final text...I'm just so glad I was able to catch you before you...is that not what you were planning to do?"
John searched through his memory, through every text he had sent that day. When had he...? "Oh." John pulled out his cell and went through his outbox. There it was:
To: SH
August 6, 6:17pm
Goodbye, Sherlock.
"I was going through old texts while I waited for word on Mary," he explained. "I was looking for...for some proof. Proof that I hadn't been mad: that whoever had your phone was travelling, that you had been receiving my messages. I must have accidentally re-sent that one."
"What do you mean, re-sent?"
John pulled up his older messages. He held it out to the man next to him, who took it. Their hands met as he laced his fingers around the device, grasping it for himself. John immediately retrieved his own hand, steadying it by his side as he had learned to in Afghanistan.
To: SH
July 28, 4:14am
Goodbye, Sherlock.
"You know, I thought you had come to an odd conclusion, assuming I wasn't answering you because I was...you know, dead."
"Well, it seemed entirely plausible."
"No. No! Are you...? Are you stupid?" John's heart-rate began to accelerate. "I would never...I never even thought to...I wouldn't do that. Not unless there weren't any chance of...of Mary...of anyone still being okay. Still being out there...alive." John took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "I want you to know that I...I never considered doing...that. Never. Not really."
"Good." The man next to him was nodding in appreciation, John could see from the corner of his eye.
"Besides, how would I have done it? I was texting from the police station." John chuckled. "What was I going to do, politely ask one of the officers to shoot me in the forehead?" The man next to him was laughing as well, for a moment, but both stopped quickly, awkwardly. A long pause.
"You're in danger now, you know."
"I know."
"And Mary...and Emma."
"Then we'll just have to figure out a way to get rid of the danger, won't we?"
"It shouldn't be too difficult. Moran was Moriarty's best man, the others won't be hard to track down." John muttered something. "What was that?"
"I just...funny choice of words. Well, not really. Um...his 'best man.'"
The two men stared at the window full of newborn. John couldn't help but think how odd they must look, having been standing there for such a long time. But no one else was around, and besides, who could resist a room full of babies? He gawked at Emma, who even though the tiniest bit pre-mature still had a fair amount of light hair on her head. Her eyes were closed, but he could still see their almond shape. Yes, Emma certainly looked like her mother.
"I should go check on Mary," John reminded himself.
"Probably," the other man responded. "She'll be awake in another quarter-hour. Would you like to hold your child first?" The question sounded almost desperate, as if the man was trying to keep John around a little longer. It was likely that he was.
"Can we go in?"
"You're the doctor."
"Right." John walked around the corner and flashed his credentials at the nurse guarding the door. She gave him a sweet smile and let him in instantly, directing him to the baby he already knew was his. John leaned over the hospital cradle and reached in, especially careful. He had always been good around babies-he had even considered becoming a natal doctor as a boy-but now no other baby mattered. None, except Emma. Then her eyes opened, just the tiniest bit, and nothing else was important anymore, because they were so clear and blue and impeccable that John could get lost in them for years on end and never think of another thing as long as he lived. Seconds later they closed again, and she lay restfully in his arms. And, all of a sudden, John was ready to look up and face the man who had given him this incredible miracle. He looked out the window-
-and there was no one there. His saviour had left. Again.
Another nurse poked her head into the door. "Your wife is waking up, sir," she told him, and John gestured to his daughter. "Yes, bring her along, Doctor Watson."
John carried his baby girl to the hospital room, and Mary was already wide-awake, reaching her arms out for the perfect bundle of joy. He sat next to her and placed Emma into her arms. The two parents kissed and stared and marvelled at the tiny thing they had brought into the world. John rested his head onto Mary's for a moment, and allowed himself to close his eyes, resting for the first time that day. Mary's voice startled him.
"Why, if it isn't my hero!" she cried, and John opened his eyes. There he was.
He looked different now. Thinner, as if he hadn't been eating enough in too long. He looked paler, which was impressive for him. His hair-well, John could see why Lestrade had found it humourous. His hair was blonde, now, and short. A military cut. John supposed perhaps it was an imitation of his own hairstyle, and would have been flattered if it didn't look so wrong on this man. The long coat was absent, and replaced with a tasteful black suit-jacket. No, this wasn't there Sherlock Holmes that John once knew...
...but it was Sherlock Holmes.
"If I may ask," Sherlock began, staring at the baby just as John had been doing before, "who is the girl's Godfather?"
"We never picked one," Mary told him, calmly. Understanding. John was always shocked by Mary's intuition. "Would you like to hold her, Mr. Holmes?"
And then Sherlock looked at John. His expression asked for permission, which surprised John so much that he immediately nodded in response. Sherlock crept over to the bed and reached out for the child. Mary softly placed her into his arms, and Sherlock sat down with the little girl at Mary's side. John watched the scene from her other side, completely awestruck by it all.
Sherlock Holmes was alive. He was here, in the room, with John. He was holding John's baby. He was Emma's Godfather. He was the miracle-man. He was alive.
And then Emma stirred, and for the first time, John could see that Sherlock had no idea how to respond. His eyes were wide, he gasped, and he frantically turned to Mary as if to ask for instruction. John stood and moved around the foot of the bed, over to Sherlock's side. He slowly re-placed Sherlock's arms so that he would have a more sturdy hold on the baby, and she was calm once again. He sat down next to the brilliant detective, and the three adults were all entirely silent, their whole world's in that moment revolving around the smallest human being John had ever seen. Minutes passed, and nurse entered to take the baby back to the infirmary. Sherlock appeared reluctant to hand her over, but-crossing his brow all the time-he allowed the sweet nurse to take Emma away, John and Mary blowing her kisses.
"I don't understand," Sherlock admitted, his eyebrows still furrowed, "Why is it that I still want to have her here with me?"
John looked at him incredulously, but still responded. "Sentiment, Sherlock."
"Damn. Sentiment, of course." He gave a small, exhaling laugh. "Unlike me."
"Not really. Not at all."
"John." It was Mary who was speaking, and John leaped to the other side of the bed to get close to her. "Give me a kiss and go to the waiting room. I could use another nap after all I've been through. Besides," she gestured to the nurse at the door, "you're about to be kicked out." John did as he was told. He kissed his wife and exited the room, Sherlock following behind him like a stray dog. When they reached the waiting room, John sat down, and Sherlock sat opposite him. They stared at each other, neither really knowing what to say.
"Lestrade's wrong, your hair looks fantastic," John joked sarcastically, only to break the silence.
"I was inherent that I change my appearance," Sherlock explained. "I've been in the country for some time, as you already deduced."
"Not bad, eh? Figuring out when you were in and out of England."
"Yes. From what I can tell of Scotland Yard's case files, you've been quite invaluable to them over the years."
"Now you're just being flattering."
"Shall I stop?"
"Few more couldn't hurt."
Sherlock's lips twitched upwards. "For one...your medical practice is quite impressive. Head-surgeon, if I'm not mistaken. I've always known you were a good doctor, but that does rank you among the best."
"That's true."
"And...managing to clear my name throughout most of the public. I don't know how you managed it."
"Must have been a bit of a piss-off to Moriarty's folk."
"Oh yes. I can't tell you how many I had to kill to keep them off your doorstep."
"Is that why Moran came after Mary?"
"Moran...I wasn't aware of his bitterness against you. I expect it wasn't the clearing of my name, but perhaps the realization that I might be alive. In fact, he probably thought it was you inside the house, not Mary. Had I known anything, he would have been long-gone before tonight, of that I can assure you."
"That wouldn't be any good."
"Wouldn't it be?"
"No. You wouldn't be here if it weren't for tonight."
"And you would be safe."
"I will be safe...I just have to be on the lookout for a little longer."
"You will do nothing. I'll take care of it. Alone."
"I think we've seen what ends up happening when I leave you alone, Sherlock."
The taller man turned his head and stared down the halls of the hospital. John used to wish he could read Sherlock's mind. He still did.
"I'm leaving, John."
"No."
"Mycroft is to help me. Once we've ridden the world of Moriarty's viruses I'll come back."
"Can you promise that?"
Sherlock sighed. "It's for your own protection."
"Sod my protection! If anyone's looking after my family, it's me, goddammit!"
"And who will look after you?"
"You. Just like always."
Sherlock appeared to take a moment to consider the offer. "We'll have to leave England. They're scattered all over Europe."
"Alright."
"One in America."
"I've always wanted to travel."
"You'll have to leave Mary."
"Probably best to lead them away from her for a while," John admitted, a little sadly.
"Fine." Sherlock was shaking his head as he agreed, as if his body was neglecting to listen to his mind's instructions.
"We won't be leaving tonight, though," John informed him, all too sure of himself. "First, we have a few people to see."
"Anyone in particular?"
"Mrs. Hudson, for one."
"Not a good idea. She's marked as you were."
"No, she's not. Lestrade arrested a man, her neighbour, not so long ago. I don't suppose it was another one of Moriarty's?"
"Peter Gestle?"
"That's the one."
"...Fine."
"And Lestrade must be free of peril, you've already let him see you."
"Yes."
"You'll come with tonight, then?" John asked, already standing.
"When you like and where you like."
"You really have changed. You never used to listen to me."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No." He stood, and the two left the hospital, side by side. They took a cab to Baker Street, and as John knocked on the front door, Sherlock spoke.
"There's something else."
"Something else what?"
"Something impressive. About you."
"Flatter me."
"That you got such a pretty wife. Honestly John, I'm surprised. Your texts weren't wrong: you've gotten fat. No offence."
"I'm barely eight pounds more than when we met!"
"Nine."
"Tit."
They chuckled. Just like old times.
"I am sorry, by the way," Sherlock apologized uncomfortably.
"It was implied."
"No...what I did to you was not fair. Especially after you'd already figured it out. I didn't mean to make you doubt yourself...to doubt me...to doubt everything. I know what it can do to a man."
"Well, part of me knew all along, I think. After all, you told me: it was 'just a trick', remember?" He heard the clicking of saliva as Sherlock smiled next to him.
"By the way, it was a lovely wedding."
John was flabbergasted. "You were there?"
"Close to front as I could manage."
John searched through his memory of his wedding to Mary. The front row, their parents. The second row...his side, full of some friends from the office, one cousin. Mary's side, a haggle of cousins, her great aunt and some friends...her great aunt. He remembered asking Mary before the reception who the woman had been, but as Mary spent most of the service staring at John, she never noticed the seating arrangements, and assumed that the ugly woman in the second row would have been her grossly nosey great aunt Betty.
"You make a hideous woman."
The door opened. Mrs. Hudson saw the pair, looked to John for confirmation, and fainted at once. John caught her on the way down and Sherlock helped him carry her to the nearest couch. They rested her flat onto it, and just as she started stirring herself awake, John heard Sherlock mutter proudly:
"Thank you."