Mrs. and Dr. Watson have a Baby Girl.
(Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or rights of BBC's Sherlock.)
This story was written for my own personal amusement and for your entertainment. Set after 'The Abominable Bride.' Cheers to you if you can pick up the references. Don't forget to review!
My fingers typing away much resembled a pianists steady performance. In a way, this was my performance. Hundreds of people, expectant, eager, waiting, for the melody to play. I could hardly contain it myself. Who was I kidding? I could shout it from the rooftops in my fervent state of excitement.
Last week, I typed, something extraordinary walked into my best friend's living room at 221b, Baker Street. I had never beheld a more interesting case in my life. The mere- I paused for a sip of Earl Grey, thinking of the most profound word that would appear in my mind after such a wholesome day. I stifled a yawn, for though my body may have reached its limits, my mind was doing laps. The mere wonder of the giant of a man who carried himself into 221b Baker Street that morning was the certainty in each step he took as he grew closer to my companion in earth shattering, ground breaking lurches-
'John, that was my- John! Oh my goodness! John! It's time!' The panic in Mary's voice caused me to flip over my Earl Grey all over the desk. I saved my laptop by a second and threw the nearest cloth over my spillage. Mary's eyes were round with splinters of emotion, swirling through a puzzle of panic. Calm down, I'm a doctor!
'So this is happening, OK, let's take a breath here, Mary, this is actually happening, this is-' I stammered and stepped towards the bed she'd been reading on, taking her by the waist in one fluid motion. 'We need a hospital- doctor- I'm a doctor! We need a hospital!' My stammering hadn't yet improved. I took her pulse as I held her wrist, grabbing a thick towel on the way out, and her overnight bag which we kept near the door in preparation of this very moment. I hopped back in for my phone I had left at the dining table. Mary's breaths were deep and nervous on my return.
'Very good, slowly, breath slowly, just like we practiced, this is going to be fine, Mary, we can do this!' Not many things frightened my wife, but I observed a real tremor heightening in her wide pupils as my fingers dialled the number for a taxi without even having to look. Reflex memory, I supposed, and practically carried my wife's body weight through the door. 'Were going to have this baby!'
Her face was plush and red. Her skin had a healthy, radiant glow. I had never had the honour of featuring in such a momentous feat in my entire existence. My wife held the tiny bundle close to her chest, as my arms encircled her shoulders and I couldn't, for the life of me, stop kissing my wife's head. My eyes would not be torn away from the tiny bundle in her arms, where only the smallest face in the world lay, the most precious face in the history of this earth, as essential now to me as the bright sun outside.
Mary and I spent our first few nights home with our baby with our eyes wide open, thinking that perhaps if we dared shut them, she might disappear.
'Little Isabella.' Mary gently cooed into the soft lamp light and closed her eyes. Love was the most wondrous subtle thing. One moment and it is there, inexplicable, hanging in the atmosphere, like a gravity pulling me towards this woman, and our baby. I had never been more complete, and felt more belonged. There was a peace in my heart as I marvelled in it.
A sharp series of knocks plunged me from my ethereal reality. My reflexes stood on end. I kissed Mary's now slumbering face and grabbed my gun out of my bedside table on the way to the door, slipping it into the back of my shirt.
'John, I need you!' Came a fierce whisper through the bolted door crack. I let out a breath I didn't realise I had been holding.
'Sherlock, what the bloody- it's nearly midnight!' I unlocked the latch and the tall figure swept inside. The detective started pacing up and down the wooden floor boards.
'I've received intel from Mycroft.' Sherlock continues pacing, sweat drops trickling down his face, even though it was a ridiculously cold degree outside. 'You were right, what we discussed yesterday, about the apparent suicide, the hanged body, it was a set-up, cleverly done, almost had me fooled... But anyway, now we have more pressing matters at hand with Mr. Melas-'
'Sherlock, what are you on about? We haven't spoken in a month! I've been pre-occupied... Remember?' The sleuth stopped, I could see his bright eyes glimmer with a brief confusion, then alight with understanding. 'Oh,' was all he said. Not for the first time, I wondered how often he spoke to my empty burgundy chair back at 221b Baker street.
'We named her Isabella by the way,' I said, all the while intrigued yet equally annoyed by my eccentric best friend's unannounced visit.
'Fine, that's good, very good. Even though you didn't choose any of the names I suggested, I suppose I should congratulate you. And Mary of course.' Sherlock added, with a rare, true smile.
'Thank you.' My face couldn't resist beaming. 'They're asleep, but if you drop by in the morning you can meet her. I know Mary would like that. We both would.'
'I...' was all that managed to escape my friend's lips.
'In fact, why don't you catch a glimpse now?' John was excited, like a fisherman full of pride, showing off a rare catch. 'If you stay quiet, you can have a small peek.' Sherlock followed his smaller frame with hesitance. The detective's step faltered through the short hall. Something's off... Out of character... John wouldn't risk inviting me in, risk me waking them up, in his bedroom... He never invites me in his bedroom... Maybe this is sentiment? He's excited to show off his new family member?
Sherlock lingered at the door way after John opened it and stepped through to his sleeping wife and baby.
'Come in,' John invited, 'have a look at her sweet little face. She's the most precious thing you could ever see.' Sherlock wasn't breathing, for all his powers of the mind, his body betrayed him. He took a step forward into the room with his long stride. There lay baby Watson... Never before had he seen such a delicate little person. So tiny. So... Treasured. This small creature didn't know it, but a silent vow was set in place then and there. A vow that no harm would ever come to her, that she would be protected by all that is evil in the world, that she would have complete happiness… and nothing would dare come between her and the love of her parents, because if it did, the detective vowed to chase down that darkness to the ends of the hell if it ever so much as touched her...
'Did you miss me?'
I felt my heart froze. 'What did you say?' I looked at my genius friend with panic in my eyes.
'I didn't say anything, John,' my dearest and closest friend replied with a quizzical brow.
I stepped towards Mary, towards my baby, as if my body was drawn to them without my minds consent. I peered down at Isabella's quiet face, restful, peaceful, all that is right in the world...
Then a dark shadow flickered across her tiny features. Fire leapt inside me. Dark eyes flared open, not the gentle brown orbs of Isabella, but the black eyes of Moriarty.
'Did you miss me?' Came the words out of my baby's- my heart's- mouth. I could distantly hear a scream, as if my body was detached to my mind, my world collapsing, the scream, I realised, being mine. My reflection was eminent in the window, but not the small sturdy frame of John Waston, but the lean slim figure of Sherlock Holmes. And next to me, not my friend, but my enemy, looming over me, looming over John's child and wife... Then all I could see was blackness.
Sherlock awoke, panting, sweating, shaking, back in bed at Baker Street. His mind was running in circles, racing into a panicked state of trepidation. He leapt out of his bed. The detective didn't pay mind to the needle falling to the floor in his haste.
'John!' The detective's deep voice roared through the midnight's silence. 'The baby, Mary, they're in trouble!' Sherlock found John as a statue, painted onto his red chair. 'We have to go, now! Moriarty's got them! He's going to hurt them! He's planning something, we have to go, now, John! They're in trouble!' The Doctor's vacant eyes resembled none of the panic his detective friend so resonated. He was an immovable object, just another piece of furniture in 221b.
'John, what's the matter with you? This is your family I'm talking about!' Sherlock reached for his coat, scarf, eyes darting around the room for his shoes. 'John!' He yelled simultaneously, frustrated at his friend's indifference.
'Sherlock, stop.' Dr. John Watson's frozen lips managed to part. Sherlock was infuriated yet equally bewildered at his friend's composure.
'What are you talking about? We have to hurry! Before it's too late-'
'They're gone, Sherlock.' Came a hoarse reply, from a voice barely used.
'Well they will be if we don't leave now!' Sherlock yelled desperately, slipping into his shoes.
'No, they're gone!' John yelled, a gaping chasm in his quiet demeanour. 'Sherlock, they're dead! They're ALL dead! That evil bastard is dead! My family; Mary and- they died! Months ago! Just stop it! Go back to your drug-crazed fantasies!'
Sherlock Holmes froze. Reality was dawning upon him, like a metal gong whacking him over his brain. Mary and baby Watson were gone... The words echoed throughout the halls of his mind palace. Mary and baby Watson are dead... Sherlock dropped everything, his coat, his scarf, his shoes, while the retired Dr. Watson sunk back into his chair, once again becoming part of the inanimate object. An immovable statue in the place a lively dear friend once sat. He stared with void eyes into the darkness.
'Forgive me, John.' The tall sleuth whispered onto once-again deaf ears, then retreated back into his den, where he knew a fresh needle awaited eagerly his return.
Mycroft Holmes peered at the man across from his glass of 2001 Saint-Emilion, with a touch of fondness in his eyes.
'I see you are a man of the world, Mr. Holmes,' said the chirped, animated voice of his dinner companion. It was rare for Mycroft to be amused by a guest, or anyone, in fact, it was quite an extraordinary thing.
'On the contrary,' the older Holmes brother replied. 'I have only left England once in my life, on a kind of business trip.' He thought of how that retrieval of his younger brother cast an unpleasantness in the pit of his stomach. Never again...
His companion was surprised. 'Then I must invite you to consider a trip to the jewel of the Southern East of Europe. The land of gods, olives, and intrigue.' A glint shone in the man's grey eyes.
'Hmm,' Mycroft replied thoughtfully. 'And I take it you've acquired many a tongue for languages in your well-travelled adventures?' The last word fell off his tongue like something disagreeable in his soup.
'Not at all,' the man admitted knowingly, taking his own sip of red. 'But one can always find a good interpreter.'
Mycroft Holmes' ever placid mouth gave a twitch as he replied, 'Quite so.'