Believe it or not this was based roughly on a horrific dream I had. (I may or may not have woken up shaking) So I wrote this just to get it out of my head so... it's a wee bit rough but I didn't mind enough to major edit it. Enjoy this wee baby fic. Be kind and review. Much obliged!
I don't own Sherlock. That's Molly's Job. ;)
The Only One
A high siren wail pierced the air in the distance but was lost to Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective was deaf to all sounds of the world except for a select few. He could hear his own breathing with a definite clarity. He could hear the ring in his left ear where a gun had been fired not long ago. He could hear John. And John's sounds were not happy ones. They were choked and pained. They were pleas and sobs. Sherlock prayed to whatever damned god that bothered to listen him, that John might quiet down. He couldn't think through the noise. He tried to force himself to concentrate. Why couldn't he think? That's the problem. Why cant people just think? The voice of a cabbie long dead invaded Sherlock's mind and the detective flinched. Something was not right. What had happened? Something had happened. Sherlock looked down at himself and blinked.
Where's my coat? His coat was gone and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal a pair of arms slick and glistening with blood. At the end of one of the arms there was a hand holding a knife covered in the same gore. Sherlock's eyes widened as he looked down and saw that his shirt and trousers were, too, covered in blood. He swallowed and heard another pained sound struggle from John's throat. He looked up.
Oh... That's whose blood... The sirens were upon them now. Sherlock's eyes were fixed calmly on John who was clutching a torn, swollen figure of a pregnant woman and a small bloody babe. There was so much blood. John, matching Sherlock, was wearing an uncanny amount of the fluid. Sherlock looked at the face John was cradling so delicately. It was a feminine face. Beautiful in all respects. It was almost without blemish besides a single hole directly between the eyes. He quickly deleted all memories of the baby and the bullet hole, gaping at him like a third eye, from his mind. Too painful. I don't want to remember that. But a name came to mind. Mary. Mary Elizabeth Morstan, No, wrong! Mary Elizabeth...Watson. Sherlock's mind came into focus for a split second No... Sherlock pitched forward and vomited.
His mind was reeling. Sherlock tried to move but a pair of steady hands caught him. They kept him down as he confusedly tried to shake whoever was grabbing him. He turned to see a woman. She managed, with some effort, to coax Sherlock into staying still. When Sherlock looked back for John he couldn't find him. Where did John and Mary go? Sherlock flinched. The woman had tried to move him. He whipped around to find her mouth moving but no sound coming out. She was mute. Everything but his own internal static was mute. Sherlock looked down to see his hand being pried open. The knife clattered beside him and he watched it go. The woman at his side grabbed hold of his face and began speaking. Her brow was creased as she mouthed a phrase soundlessly. Sherlock didn't feel the hands on him as the woman and a man transferred him to a gurney. They tucked a thick blanket around him. It was orange. It's for shock. Greg Lestrade's voice invaded Sherlock's silence this time. Sherlock struggled with the paramedics for a moment when they first boarded the ambulance. He gave it up. They managed to get an oxygen mask on him and Sherlock watched the woman's face move as she spoke silent words he couldn't hear. He felt the vehicle begin to move when a single line of words penetrated his shielded mind.
"...Do you know what happened...?" Sherlock did know what happened. It blazed through his head with painful luminosity before settling in his skull like molten lava being poured into a wine glass. He could tell her. She'll help Mary. She'll help John. She'll help the baby. She'll help me. I can tell her what happened. I can tell her who shot Mary. I can tell her it was I who tried the emergency cesarean birth! I can tell her that the blade slipped and cut my arm. I can tell her I'm bleeding out! I can tell her I don't feel well. I can tell her I think I'm going to pass out. An infinite amount of tell-able information ran through Sherlock's head. Some relevant. Most not. He wanted to tell her about Mary, and mold cultures, and tobacco ash, and John, and spray paint, and Anderson, and human parts in the kitchen, and Molly, and cocaine, and the baby, and about what happened, and Moriar-!
"I-I-I know w-w-w-w-what ha-a-app-p-pened." Sherlock spoke, but the voice that came out was not his own. The place he found himself was not inside an ambulance. He was in a hospital room now, perched on the side of a bed. A new woman in scrubs was cutting his shirt off. She stopped and looked up.
"Well hallo there, sir. You've not been real responsive up until now. I'm Erin Stokes. I'm a doctor and I'll taking care of you, okay?" Her voice was gentle and coaxing, "What's your name, sir? Can you give me your name?" she asked. Sherlock stared at her dumbly for a few seconds before nodding.
"Sh-Sh-Sherl-lock. Sherl-l-l-lock Holmesss." Sherlock stuttered out quietly. Erin Stokes nodded as she continued to cut the fabric.
"Good. Okay Sherlock, how are you feeling? Are you in any pain?" She asked. Sherlock took a moment to assess himself. His mind again slowed. Was he in pain? He didn't know. His whole body ached. I remember accidentally cutting my arm. Sherlock realized all of a sudden that his arm was throbbing something terrible. His gaze fell to it and he tried to lift it. It was limp at his side.
"M-m-my... my... my-" Sherlock motioned to his bloodied arm and tried to stammer out the words that were on his tongue. Doctor Erin Stokes understood.
"You're arm?" Sherlock nodded as she peeled the fabric back. She made a face and then quickly wiped it away, "You've been cut pretty bad, Sherlock. Do you know how that happened?" She said in a calm voice. The moment she'd freed the fabric from his arm a surge of blood burbled from where the knife had hit him when he'd slipped. She grabbed a handful of gauze and pressed it to the bleeding wound and grappled behind her for supplies.
"Um...My-my h-hand slipped in the-the- all the- It-it was an accident." Sherlock began stuttering. Something inside his head refused to function, so he went silent.
After that, Sherlock sat blankly as she stitched up his arm and cleaned the wound. Sherlock watched her sew his split arm shut with complete serenity. His face was blank. He considered the possibility of it hurting. Did it hurt? Yes. Indeed it did. But it didn't hurt like it should. It was as if it wasn't his pain. As if the sharp stabbing in his arm came not from his arm but from the heart in his chest. I was not his pain. Not yet.
After a few minutes, his arm was being wrapped with bandaging and he watched in complete silence. Erin Stokes noticed his sudden mellowing.
"Sherlock, is all this blood from your arm?" She asked. Sherlock was still blankly staring at his arms. "Sherlock. Look at me, Sherlock." Sherlock's head snapped up, "There you go." Sherlock's eyes were distant and dilated as he stared through her. "Sherlock, this blood. Are you cut anywhere else? Is it all from your arm?" She asked. She continued to work as Sherlock looked down at his stained arms and torso. He was a burgundy color up to his elbows. His breathing became shallow and his eyes watery.
"No. No, not all of it. Th-that's not my blood." He hiccuped. "That's Mary's. M-Mary was...She...she was bleeding." Sherlock suddenly shot from the bed, forgetting everything. The IV in his arm ripped away, the monitors stuck to his chest peeled off, his left leg gave out, and Sherlock himself was thrown face first to the floor. His doctor has no time to react. Sherlock struck the floor first with his bad arm. He gasped and sputtered in as she pulled him from the ground and got him back on the bed.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, listen to me! You need to stay right here, on this bed, until I am finished. Do you understand me?!" Doctor Erin Stokes ordered. Her voice had turned hard and stern. "You were involved in a very serious event and I need to make sure that you're okay. Do you understand, Mr. Holmes? You're arm was wounded. I am here to make sure the rest of you is in good nick, alright? You're not responding again, Mr. Holmes. Do. You. Understand?" Sherlock nodded and let her go back to work.
The doctor found another accidental stab in his side. By the end of it, every bit of his expensive clothing was cut away, he was cleaned up, he was put in a hospital gown, and finally his bad arm was placed in a sling so he wouldn't go banging it on things. The entire time the doctor was treating him, Mary and John never left Sherlock's mind. He had to see them. He needed to know that Mary was okay. That the baby he had pulled from her stomach like Persephone was okay.
And so finally when he was drugged and bandaged, Doctor Erin Stokes allowed him to carefully stand, and walk with her. She led him carefully down the long halls. It was nighttime in the hospital. It was dark and she led him to a small room with a few chairs in it. Sherlock saw his wallet, his tool kit, his phone, John's wallet, John's phone, and Mary's purse all sitting on a table in the corner. He was placed in a chair and Doctor Erin Stokes sat across from him. She looked somber.
"Are Mary and John alright? Did the baby make it? I've never done anything like that but I knew that-!" The doctor cut him off.
"Sherlock. Sherlock I need to ask you a question before you can see Mary and John. Is that okay?" Dr. Stokes was staring at him with weary eyes, like she was nervous as to whether she was doing the right thing. Sherlock shut his mouth and nodded. "Sherlock, do you remember what happened last evening?" She asked tenderly. Sherlock stared at her for a beat. Of coarse he remembered.
"Yes. Yes I remember." He said as though her question had been a dumb one.
"Can you tell me what happened?" She pressed. Sherlock found the hesitance in her voice unsettling.
"John an I were on a case. We left Mary at the restaurant, her being all pregnant and such. We were chasing Jim Moriarty, I'm sure you've heard the name, know the face." Dr. Stokes nodded, "We were led to a populated area and caught off guard. Moriarty and his partner split up which, in turn, split us up while chasing them. We lost track them but I received a text. It read-" Sherlock grabbed his phone and held up the text.
FIND YOUR PET OR SEB STARTS SHOOTING. YOU'VE GOT THIRTY SECONDS. TICK-TOCK, SEXY. -JM
"And then a timer appeared on my phone. It was a game. His plan had no other purpose but to prove his power over me. So I began searching for John. Sadly London is full of tow-headed, short, fussy little men so it proved difficult. I reached John a second too late and all I had time to do was warn him before... bef-bef- before... um..." Sherlock trailed off. His eyes glazed into the same blind state he had been in when he first arrived at the hospital. Erin Stokes had to work to get him back.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, hey! Come on Sherlock. Before what? I need you to talk to me. Remember Mary and John." This brought Sherlock back immediately.
"Yes. Sorry. Um...um... yes. Before the...the shooting began. W-we realized that Ma-Mary might be in... in danger." Sherlock's sudden returning stutter did not go unnoticed by the doctor. "So we went to-to-to the restaurant...and she was out- she was standing in the square. Her-her g-gun was dr-dra-drawn. We ran to her and..." Sherlock stopped there for a long time. He stared at his hands. His mouth was moving but no words were coming out. Finally he began again. "...and I knew I had to get the baby out so I-I took John's knife and-" Dr. Stokes had seen what Sherlock had done. He'd skipped the most traumatic moment in his story and then went on. She couldn't help but pity him, but she knew he could not see Mary and John until he accepted what had happened.
"Sherlock why did you have to get the baby out?" She pressed him. She didn't know Sherlock enough to know if nudging him might break him. She wasn't sure how fragile he really might be.
"B-because i-i-it would s-suf-suffocate." Sherlock said. His face became nervous. She could tell he was still him shock. He was shaking and sweating. His eyes were dilated and defensive.
"Why would the baby suffocate?" She pressed a little harder. She could almost feel the blade of his memory sliding deeper into his gut.
"I...it... um... Mary... I-I got to her first. A-and I grabbed her. A-a-and she f-f-fell. Blood. Her blood... um... it was on my face. She-she had a hole. A-a hole. It- it was a hole in her... her... her..." Sherlock trailed off suddenly. Realization struck in his head like a match. "Oh no..." he whispered. And then he was thrown back into a fit of blind silence. Dr. Erin Stokes knew what she had done. She could see by the tears in his blood shot eyes that he knew he would not be greeting Mary and John this night. Nor would he hush a crying babe in his arms. She let Sherlock have his time and then after a long while she spoke carefully.
"Sherlock? I want you to tell me what you know." She had to force him into finishing this assessment. It was cruel. But it had to be done. His eyes clicked back into focus and his face suddenly blanked. His eyes went dry and the flush on his cheeks disappeared.
"I know a good deal." he began, forcing himself not to stutter. "Mary was shot in the head by Sebastian Moran. The shot killed her and the shock killed the baby. I did an emergency cesarean in attempt to secure the child. It was dead when I received it. As I was cutting I slipped in the blood, understandably accumulating everywhere, and cut myself in the arm. Upon finding the child deceased, I made an angered outburst and jammed John's pocket knife into my leg. After that I woke up in your care." Sherlock's voice was mechanical. The doctor was more worried now than she had been before. Sherlock stared at her with complete composure. He sat painfully erect and looked out of place attached wearing a hospital gown.
"C-c-ca...nn" Sherlock took a moment to collect his quivering voice. "Can I see... M-...Can I see them?" Sherlock asked cocking his head. Erin Stokes nodded and helped Sherlock up. Together, they slowly made their way down across the hall to a dim room. Dr. Stokes nodded and cracked the door for Sherlock to go inside.
"John?" Sherlock stepped gingerly into the room. His head swam a little due to the drugs he'd been given. He watched as John tensed at the sound of his voice. John didn't turn around though. He was stiff, his hand clutching Mary's. Sherlock could tell that John had the baby in his other arm. The detective swallowed and stepping farther into the dim room. Sherlock took in the sight of Mary, pale and still. They had put a hat on her to cover the bullet hole in her forehead. Sherlock felt bile rising in his throat.
Shecould have been sleeping. She should have been sleeping. Sherlock's hands began trembling more violently as he slowly went to John. He placed a gentle hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. Sherlock peered over John to see the fully developed face of John Watson's child. It's face was so tiny, so delicate. His trembling hand withdrew.
Sherlock has always thought it idiotic how people said newborn babes looked like their parents... only now... now it wasn't. The baby had John's nose, Mary's delicate lips, and a head of thick black curls that almost seemed comical coming from two blonde parents. Sherlock forgot to breath. He felt his legs go weak and allowed himself to slowly drop to the floor. He pressed his back to the chair and buried his head between his knees. Breathe, he reminded himself, remember to breathe. It was hard.
Whatever stoicism, whatever composure Sherlock Holmes had ever pretended to have coming into this room was gone. He didn't know how to handle the situation. He was hyperventilating, not breathing,drowning, dying, all at the same time. He was suffocating like the babe he had failed to save. I'm sorry, he thought, I'm sorry you died. But then another voice entered his haunted head. THAT'S WHAT PEOPLE DO! Moriarty did this on his behalf. Sherlock was too much fun to kill so lets just kill a baby. Sherlock could think of nothing to say.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered. There was a long silence after this. The room was heavy. John took a breathe.
"It's not your fault, Sherlock." John said through a struggled gasp. Sherlock shook his head.
"I'm not apologizing out of guilt. I'm apologizing because I failed-" John cut him off with a painful single worded plea.
"Sherlock-" Sherlock was no longer with John. His mind was blank and he didn't hear his name being said as words poured out of his own mouth, faster than even he could process.
"I'm apologizing because Mary can't. Because that child died alone. Because-" John cut him off, visibly shaking. Tears threatened to spill from his reddened eyes and he gritted his teeth, begging Sherlock to stop.
"Sherlock, please..." John begged. But Sherlock was too far lost. The detectives face was pale and blank. He'd broken out in a cold sweat. His eyes were moving, rapid and searching.
"I'm apologizing because that's not me in that hospital bed and we all know it should be." Sherlock gasped as he realized what he'd said aloud. His head was screaming, he could smell blood. I should be me. ItshouldbemItshouldbeme. It. Should. Be. Me.
Sherlock struggled as his thought imploded in on themselves. He fought to, but he couldn't keep the single question he'd had his entire life from spilling into the room . "Shouldn't that be me, John...?" And at that, Sherlock was ripped back into reality by the violent noise that tore from John's throat. John was trembling hard enough to jar Sherlock through the chair.
"No. Shut up, Sherlock. My wife and my child are... They... They're d-... They're dead. So shove your bloody death wish and allow yourself to grieve, dammit." John spoke angrily. Sherlock pause. The detective forced his flimsy legs to stand.
He stood for a long time. He was afraid. John Watson was Sherlock's tether to stability. John kept him right. He was strong when Sherlock was weak. Sherlock had very rarely seen the rawest form of John Watson and when he had, he'd always wished he hadn't. It scared him. It scared him more than anything.
He walked around the chair to face John. John stared up at Sherlock. Both men were frozen. They regarded each other in austere silence. Sherlock noted the dead look in John's eyes, John noted the unstable look in Sherlock's. Thy held each others stares for a long while and then suddenly Sherlock's eyes fell from John's to the tiny bundle swaddled in blue.
John watched as Sherlock's manic eyes turned soft and he cocked his head. John purse his lips and then motioned Sherlock to take the still infant. Sherlock's eyes widened and he hesitated before taking the child from John's arms. Sherlock held the child close and gently brushed the pale child's soft cheek with his thumb. John cleared his throat.
"He's a boy, you know." John whispered, afraid his voice would break the integrity of the room. A sob broke Sherlock's lips and he smile a crack of a smile.
"Of course he is." Sherlock's eyes welled with tears. This sort of emotional occurrence always took both men off guard.
"Hamish Sherlock Watson." John quipped before biting his lip. He began shaking his head, "That's his name. We were going to call him Sherlock... And If he was a girl it was actually going to be Sherlock Mary Scott Watson... but... um, yeah." John said quietly. Tears tried and failed to escape Sherlock's eyes and trickled down his cheeks. He held them back. Not yet.
"That's a terrible name." Sherlock laughed
"Yeah well, I once heard Sherlock's a girls name." John smiled and they both offered tiny laughs. Those small smiles had to be enough, enough to hold each other over. Enough to survive. After that they were left in silence. Sherlock took the child and sat in the chair next to John. Only as he sat, the world faded into only him and the small baby. Sherlock didn't have a violin to play to the sleeping child, but he could sing. And he did.
It was an old song. A sad, haunting lullaby. It was beautiful nonetheless.
Sherlock's violin was always said to be a gift from the gods. Sherlock's voice though, as rare as it was to be heard in song, was that of a god himself. He sang deep, his dark lullaby to the cold child and by the end found himself quietly gripping the baby as tears rolled down his cheeks. He smiled sadly at the angelic face and began speaking. The words that had been lost were now found.
"I once told John, your father, that it was by his own fault that he often found himself in painful situations. He asked me why he limped. I told him he missed the violence. He asked me why he was my friend. I told him he loved the chase. He asked me why he married a criminal. I told him he loved the danger." Sherlock breathed in a bitter smile and shook his head. "But when I asked John Watson why he asked me so often, he told me something. He said he asked me because things weren't supposed to be like this, they were supposed to be... different..." Sherlock paused for a long time after this. He considered his next words with caution. "Things should have been different from the beginning. From the very start John and I were two suicidal time-bombs brought together to make a single warhead. People found out and lit the fuse. We burned too hot..." Sherlock paused, " I lied when I said all bombs had an off switch.
He was pulled out of his trance by a pair of steady hands locking on his arms. He looked up to see John, standing behind him was Dr. Stokes. Tears streaked both of their faces. The doctor tried to compose herself.
"We've gotta go." John whispered. Sherlock nodded and stood. He walked over to the bed. He kissed Mary on the cheek and then looked down at the beautiful baby, Hamish Sherlock Watson, in his arms.
"I guess I'm still the only one in the world." he whispered. "For that, Sherlock, I am sorry."
Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it. Was fun to write ( but not so much to have as a dream). Review and enjoy the rest of your day! Cheers!