p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"Sherlock's boots splash through the rain puddles and water seeps over the top of his mud stained leather lace ups. He's three blocks away, but his leather jacket is already soaked through. His shirt is soaked through. His shoes, socks and underwear are soaked through. The only thing that's dry is the bundle at his chest. He clutches the terry wool for dear life. His breath smokes as he pants, willing his tired vessel to move just a little longer. For gods sake, just a little longer and he'll be safe. The lightning flickers and the rain lessens as the church comes into view. He's moving too hastily, he knows, but there's no time to stop. He's got to get him inside. Inside where there's help. Where someone can keep him safe. The door is heavy, likely oak wood, but he pulls with the last of his strength./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"There's candles lit to stamp out the desolate air of dogma. The stained glass can't filter in the moonlight like the sun. Mary, and Jesus with his golden halo, are shrouded under the guise of darkness. Sherlock stands in the cool entryway keening his eyes for a sign of life. There's no one there, but there's light flickering on the mantel, a saving grace./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Can I help you?" His startled breath stirs the bundle at his chest. He turns toward the voice and the child wiggles. His forehead pinches from his broken sleep, but fully squirms when he realizes his belly is empty. It's been over four hours since either of them ate./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Please." Sherlock steps toward her. "Please- my son. He's-" Sherlock can't even get the words out before she's grabbed the blanket and rushed him to the alter to inspect him. Sherlock follows behind her more slowly, but determined, the last efforts of his vessel's biology./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Shhh…." The woman both hushes and soothes his son before he starts wailing. The woman is a nun, most definitely, an older one by the looks of it. Her black headdress is fitted around her head, but it doesn't restrain her as much as the ones at his once church in Yorkshire. She unwraps the blanket he's in as if it's a casket, terrified what she might find inside. It's obvious she's not expecting a perfectly healthy, albeit cranky, ten week old baby. Sherlock unwraps the satchel from around his shoulder and takes a step forward./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""There's bottles, nappies and formula in here." He tells the nun sitting it on the floor in front of him. "His birth certificate is in there, as well as his hospital records. He's 4.25 kilograms and 60.96 centimeters. He has a birthmark on the back of his right knee cap. He eats every three hours….this will be his fourth so he's a bit cussed."/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The woman turns toward him and Sherlock steps back. She scrutinizes his appearance with her wisdom pinched eyes. Even without his skills of observation, he's sure his clothes tell a story. The leather jacket he's wearing is too tight, like he's trying to impress someone with his style, rather than keep warm in London's bitter cold and fog. His jeans are ripped at the knee. A style perhaps, but in reality, a fall. His shoe is also scuffed at the front, a result of the same tumble. His hair reaches his shoulders, too long. A disheveled mop of oily waves. He hasn't taken a proper bath in days./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Are you on drugs?" Sherlock shakes his head. He hasn't done a thing since he found out he was pregnant. That was over a year ago./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""His system is clean." The child in her arms kicks completely out of the swaddle Sherlock wrapped him and begins to whimper. "He'll need to be fed." Sherlock looks at the satchel to remind her. The nun bends over, but doesn't take her eyes off Sherlock as she reaches for the parcel bag. She pulls it from the strap, and slides it across the freshly polished marble floors. Good, she's suspicious of him. emI would be too,/em Sherlock silently agrees./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Might want to hurry mind you." Sherlock can observe his son's behavior even from here. The newborn's fist find his mouth, and he sucks the side of it to self soothe. Sherlock knows it's an innate need to suckle, but it sounds raw and desperate to his ears. When that doesn't work the child resorts to bunching himself in order to mimic the feel of the womb he once inhabited. The lapping sounds in the air become frantic, and the baby bobs his head, searching for whatever nipple he can latch onto. It's their final warning./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The woman prepares the bottle, but she's moving to slow. Sherlock paces back and forth, the movement making his son's whimpering more bearable. He should have thought to stop on the way here to feed him, but he was terrified he wouldn't make it this far. Besides, that's the problem isn't? He can't think like this!/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The baby wails out a vengeful howl and Sherlock slaps his hands over his ears. The sound scrapes his ear drums, clawing its way through his sinus', and catching in his throat. His body tenses and then shakes. He grounds his teeth together and lets out a strained grunt as the blood drains from his face. The baby's cries ricochet through the churches arched columns, echoing and magnifying./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"emCan't./em/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"emCan't./em/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"emCan't./em/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The image of himself wrapping his hands around the child's neck to silence him writhe in Sherlock's head. He covers his eyes as if to shut them out. "Please! Make him stop crying!" he pleads. The sound is unbearable, and Sherlock's shiver becomes a full blown shake. The combination of adrenaline and anger surges through his blood./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Hurry up!" he screams. Hands ghost over his neck, the feel of fingertips on his adams apple, and then a full force choke. He's able to squeeze in just enough air through his narrow passageway, just enough so he doesn't pass out completely. A part of him considers it might be better if he passes out. He knows the hands clutching at his throat are invisible, but it doesn't stop the panic attack. He drags himself to the alter and sits blinking rapidly. Closing his eyes doesn't help him if all he can see is that night rewound and replayed./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"Minutes pass before he realizes the church is silent once more. His breath is ragged, as though he's just run the length of Wembley. Sweat drips from his temples, heats his arm pits, and saturates his palms. He hears the thirsty gulps, and appreciative whimpers from his son's throat. One last vagrant image of Sherlock squeezing the life from his helpless son makes him stand and head toward the exit. The woman's footsteps are padded, but Sherlock can tell she's following him. Her robes make a distinct sound as she shuffles over the marble. Sherlock speeds up. He can see the handle of the church door, gold and gleaming. Leaving his son here will be the end. Once and for all he'll be done with it. The escape from his hell. He reaches out to pull the handle when the nun's voice stills him./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""One day he'll come back here asking questions," she says simply./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"Heat swells under his lids as he squeezes the handle./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Don't leave him without an answer."/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"One day his son will grow up, in whatever home he lives in, and he'll want to know who Sherlock was and why Sherlock left him. He can't give him the answer now...but maybe.../p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"Sherlock's eyes widen from the rush of the realization. He doesn't notice how tight he's holding the handle of the door until he unwraps his aching fingers from around it. He searches his pocket and finds a silver pocket watch, dangling from a half link chain, inscribed with the initials. S.H. The writing is curved and semi slanted. He planned to sell it for cash, but he concludes this is more appropriate. After all, it's a present from his own father. Sherlock places the watch in her outstretched hand and gives his son his first and only gift. A mystery of Sherlock's own making./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Take care of my son." Sherlock wrenches the door open with more strength than he needed to open it. His body freezes when he reaches the threshold of the doorway. The last effort of his omega biology at work, no doubt. Every muscle in his body itches for him to reach around and grab his son from the nun that holds him, but he pushes through that voice that says "stay". Sherlock walks through the pearly gates, and listens as the voice for him to claim his child grows louder. But he keeps walking, he never even looks back, and claims his redemption instead./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"There's candles lit to stamp out the desolate air of dogma. The stained glass can't filter in the moonlight like the sun. Mary, and Jesus with his golden halo, are shrouded under the guise of darkness. Sherlock stands in the cool entryway keening his eyes for a sign of life. There's no one there, but there's light flickering on the mantel, a saving grace./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Can I help you?" His startled breath stirs the bundle at his chest. He turns toward the voice and the child wiggles. His forehead pinches from his broken sleep, but fully squirms when he realizes his belly is empty. It's been over four hours since either of them ate./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Please." Sherlock steps toward her. "Please- my son. He's-" Sherlock can't even get the words out before she's grabbed the blanket and rushed him to the alter to inspect him. Sherlock follows behind her more slowly, but determined, the last efforts of his vessel's biology./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Shhh…." The woman both hushes and soothes his son before he starts wailing. The woman is a nun, most definitely, an older one by the looks of it. Her black headdress is fitted around her head, but it doesn't restrain her as much as the ones at his once church in Yorkshire. She unwraps the blanket he's in as if it's a casket, terrified what she might find inside. It's obvious she's not expecting a perfectly healthy, albeit cranky, ten week old baby. Sherlock unwraps the satchel from around his shoulder and takes a step forward./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""There's bottles, nappies and formula in here." He tells the nun sitting it on the floor in front of him. "His birth certificate is in there, as well as his hospital records. He's 4.25 kilograms and 60.96 centimeters. He has a birthmark on the back of his right knee cap. He eats every three hours….this will be his fourth so he's a bit cussed."/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The woman turns toward him and Sherlock steps back. She scrutinizes his appearance with her wisdom pinched eyes. Even without his skills of observation, he's sure his clothes tell a story. The leather jacket he's wearing is too tight, like he's trying to impress someone with his style, rather than keep warm in London's bitter cold and fog. His jeans are ripped at the knee. A style perhaps, but in reality, a fall. His shoe is also scuffed at the front, a result of the same tumble. His hair reaches his shoulders, too long. A disheveled mop of oily waves. He hasn't taken a proper bath in days./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Are you on drugs?" Sherlock shakes his head. He hasn't done a thing since he found out he was pregnant. That was over a year ago./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""His system is clean." The child in her arms kicks completely out of the swaddle Sherlock wrapped him and begins to whimper. "He'll need to be fed." Sherlock looks at the satchel to remind her. The nun bends over, but doesn't take her eyes off Sherlock as she reaches for the parcel bag. She pulls it from the strap, and slides it across the freshly polished marble floors. Good, she's suspicious of him. emI would be too,/em Sherlock silently agrees./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Might want to hurry mind you." Sherlock can observe his son's behavior even from here. The newborn's fist find his mouth, and he sucks the side of it to self soothe. Sherlock knows it's an innate need to suckle, but it sounds raw and desperate to his ears. When that doesn't work the child resorts to bunching himself in order to mimic the feel of the womb he once inhabited. The lapping sounds in the air become frantic, and the baby bobs his head, searching for whatever nipple he can latch onto. It's their final warning./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The woman prepares the bottle, but she's moving to slow. Sherlock paces back and forth, the movement making his son's whimpering more bearable. He should have thought to stop on the way here to feed him, but he was terrified he wouldn't make it this far. Besides, that's the problem isn't? He can't think like this!/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The baby wails out a vengeful howl and Sherlock slaps his hands over his ears. The sound scrapes his ear drums, clawing its way through his sinus', and catching in his throat. His body tenses and then shakes. He grounds his teeth together and lets out a strained grunt as the blood drains from his face. The baby's cries ricochet through the churches arched columns, echoing and magnifying./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"emCan't./em/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"emCan't./em/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"emCan't./em/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"The image of himself wrapping his hands around the child's neck to silence him writhe in Sherlock's head. He covers his eyes as if to shut them out. "Please! Make him stop crying!" he pleads. The sound is unbearable, and Sherlock's shiver becomes a full blown shake. The combination of adrenaline and anger surges through his blood./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Hurry up!" he screams. Hands ghost over his neck, the feel of fingertips on his adams apple, and then a full force choke. He's able to squeeze in just enough air through his narrow passageway, just enough so he doesn't pass out completely. A part of him considers it might be better if he passes out. He knows the hands clutching at his throat are invisible, but it doesn't stop the panic attack. He drags himself to the alter and sits blinking rapidly. Closing his eyes doesn't help him if all he can see is that night rewound and replayed./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"Minutes pass before he realizes the church is silent once more. His breath is ragged, as though he's just run the length of Wembley. Sweat drips from his temples, heats his arm pits, and saturates his palms. He hears the thirsty gulps, and appreciative whimpers from his son's throat. One last vagrant image of Sherlock squeezing the life from his helpless son makes him stand and head toward the exit. The woman's footsteps are padded, but Sherlock can tell she's following him. Her robes make a distinct sound as she shuffles over the marble. Sherlock speeds up. He can see the handle of the church door, gold and gleaming. Leaving his son here will be the end. Once and for all he'll be done with it. The escape from his hell. He reaches out to pull the handle when the nun's voice stills him./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""One day he'll come back here asking questions," she says simply./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"Heat swells under his lids as he squeezes the handle./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Don't leave him without an answer."/p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"One day his son will grow up, in whatever home he lives in, and he'll want to know who Sherlock was and why Sherlock left him. He can't give him the answer now...but maybe.../p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;"Sherlock's eyes widen from the rush of the realization. He doesn't notice how tight he's holding the handle of the door until he unwraps his aching fingers from around it. He searches his pocket and finds a silver pocket watch, dangling from a half link chain, inscribed with the initials. S.H. The writing is curved and semi slanted. He planned to sell it for cash, but he concludes this is more appropriate. After all, it's a present from his own father. Sherlock places the watch in her outstretched hand and gives his son his first and only gift. A mystery of Sherlock's own making./p
p style="font-family: 'Nimbus Roman No9 L', 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;""Take care of my son." Sherlock wrenches the door open with more strength than he needed to open it. His body freezes when he reaches the threshold of the doorway. The last effort of his omega biology at work, no doubt. Every muscle in his body itches for him to reach around and grab his son from the nun that holds him, but he pushes through that voice that says "stay". Sherlock walks through the pearly gates, and listens as the voice for him to claim his child grows louder. But he keeps walking, he never even looks back, and claims his redemption instead./p