AN: Hello! My name is Autumn, and the literature you are hopefully about to enjoy was written by one of my good friends, Georgie. She and I will be writing alternating chapters for the duration of this story. Alas, we do not own 'Sherlock,' or any of the people, places, events seen within. But, to own Benedict Cumberbatch... Anyways! Enjoy! Please leave love and reviews. Inform us of any issues you spot as this is not beta'd as of yet. Ta-ta!


Maybe it was fate. Maybe it wasn't. It could have just been a coincidence. There was probably a logical reasoning behind it the whole time.

Either way July 19th, 1976 was a very important day.

Oliver was just getting off work. On any other day, he'd head home dutifully to his very pregnant wife. But he was tired. His job was hard. The old Irish pub was only two blocks away. It was too tempting…

Three hours later, four rounds of snooker, and 40 pounds down, Oliver had all but forgotten about Margaret, his wife. She could cope for herself couldn't she? He was a man for god's sake, sometime he just needed to kick back and relax, right?

It was about that same time that a short and stout man walked in with a willowy blonde on his arm. Oliver couldn't help but stare at such an odd pairing, but looked away as soon as he saw the man heading his way. The girl, it seemed, had gotten distracted by a silver painting in the hall.

"This seat taken?" the man said in a heavy Scottish accent. "No," Oliver slurred out, his glass of scotch blurring his vision. "Aye," grumbled the man as he hopped up. "James," he said with an outstretched hand. "Oliver." He slurred back, grabbing James hand fervently and shaking it.

"So ya from the city, or are ya vistin'?" James asked.

"I'm from here, yeah. Some street that I- well- I can't even remember the name of the damned thing!" Oliver barely got out, and both him and James sputtered with laughter and clinked their glasses together.

Ten streets down in Hackney, Margaret was getting impatient.

Her husband was absolutely nowhere to be found, and her contractions were going crazy. They'd been ten minutes apart only an hour ago, and now they were nearly five. She considered calling her doctor, but she knew exactly what he'd say: "Have your husband drive you here as soon as possible."

As soon as possible wouldn't be soon enough if Margaret knew Oliver.

She heard a loud crash from the kitchen and started to run to check on it when another one came. "Ergh um Mycrie was that you honey? I told you not to ergh play with the big boy toys unless um, ugh, your Dad is here." /Which I guess is not that much/ she muttered.

When her young son came rumbling through the kitchen doorway, he jumped up onto the couch excitedly. "Mum, you have to see what I made out of the toys!"

"Yes, yes Mycroft later. I bet it's brilliant though." She sputtered out, distracted from thinking of where Oliver could be.

"But Mum, it's more than brilliant. It's genius!" he said the last word with as much aplomb as his little body could muster, his arms thrown up and his mouth in the biggest smile possible. He twirled around because he saw the light on the top of the ceiling and he almost forgot about his contraption in the kitchen.

"Mycroft! Don't stare at the light like that, it could hurt your eyes. And then you wouldn't have the prettiest eyes in the whole entire world." Margaret's maternal instincts snapped back as the pain subsided, and she reached down to look her son in the eye.

"Mum, I can't possibly have the prettiest eyes in the whole world, and even if I did you wouldn't know 'cause you haven't met every person in the whole world." Mycroft said matter-factly. His fifth birthday was coming up, but he would be starting his second year at primary school in two weeks.

"But I know that your eyes are the prettiest. It's just something that mums know, and little boys don't…" she grinned at him.

"What if baby has the prettiest eyes in the world?"

"No one could ever have eyes prettier than yours, okay Mycrie?" he nodded at her and she would have hugged him if another contraction hadn't just hit. She closed her eyes for a second and her son looked at her with a mixture of confusion and worry.

"Mum, you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I just need to find out where Dad is…" she spit out, trying to keep the pain out of her voice.

"Oh…" with that Mycroft spun around and went back into the kitchen. He was never one to stick around when things got to emotional, even at five years old his coldness was already forming.

Margaret shook her head and sat down, holding on the armrest until the pain finally left. She tried to make a list of his after-work hangouts. There was the old lumber yard by the river where all the old men came to complain about their wives and kids. Down the street was a dark pizza parlor where all the waitresses wore tight tops. There was also two different pubs she remembered. 'If he's at a pub gettin' drunk, I swear, I will kill him." Margaret said shaking her head.

Of all the days to slump off and have a couple, today was not the day.

Halfway through a wild and crazy story about some distant cousin who had fallen off a train and ended up in an old village in Wales, James was having a good time. He and Oliver had hit it off. They were watching two men go at it in a drunken rumble in the streets, and humming along to a drinking song that a group of middle aged men were shouting across the tables. It had been a good night for both, and it was nearing eight o'clock when James finally neared the ending of his hour long story.

"So anyways, it turns out that the man he was talkin' to was actually not a man at all, he was a woman!" James said with arms out. "He had lady parts and he had dresses in his closet and all that. He was so surrised he nearly pissed himself." Oliver laughed heartily, the alcohol making him think it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

"What's this guys name again?" Oliver asked, barely remembering James name.

"Cousin Ashley, but everyone thought he was a girl on paper!" James chuckled.

"That's a bugger of a name if I ever heard one."

"Yep, it was. We always called him by his family name to his face so he wouldn't get mad. Man, I still remember callin' him Ashley once… His ears got so red it made his ginger hair look blonde!" Both men laughed.

"What was his family name?" Oliver asked, trying to keep the conversation going. He was starting to get sleepy, and the alcohol was just making him confused.

"Argh, it was even worse than his first one! 'Sherlock' we called him, yep you heard me, Sherlock! Idn't that the funniest name you ever heard?"

Oliver didn't exactly agree. It stuck him as something special. "Sherlock." It sounded almost like his mum's name Sherlie, but he could imagine a little boy holding that name with dignity.

"You know I better get home sooner or later. My wife is expectin' a child, and I should probably check in on her."

'Ah congratulations then! Is it a boy or girl?" James asked.

"Well we're hoping for a girl. I already got a little son back home. You and your wife got any?" He gestured to the blonde who was in an intense conversation with another tall blonde whilst two grumpy men watched them in awe. They looked almost to be in love with the sight of them.

James shook his head and smiled sheepishly. "She idn't my wife, but I hope she will be. I just haven't got the balls to do it yet!" The two sat in silence for a while. They watched a man and a woman next to them argue loudly over the price of drinks. Over the counter two patrons were waging who would win. Across the pub a man was bragging loudly over his win in snooker.

"I always wanted a son." James admitted quietly after a few minutes.

"Yeah? Well I'd offer you mine if my wife weren't so taken with him…" Oliver said ruefully.

"You don't enjoy it? Bein' able to teach your son the way of nature, bein' able to bring him to a football game and talk to him 'bout the players?"

"I would if he was interested in the least in any of that! He's five and he's already reading better than I do! He's a case I tell you. I keep on tellin' Maggie, you better be ready for when he's gonna land in some institution somewhere. She don't listen though. Says he's her 'little angel'" Oliver spit out, almost choking on his drink. "She don't ever talk to me no more, just that damn little boy. It ain't right!"

James was nodding sympathetically. "You know Joanne's got a cat she's so obsessed with, I'm this close to shuttin' it out. But you know I love her, I love her. And you love Maggie, so what we to do? Yeh know…"

Oliver just nodded.

"Mum, I don't know what to do." Margaret almost cried into the telephone. Her contractions were down to every three minutes and Oliver was nowhere in sight.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"I'm havin' the baby mum, and I can't find Ollie anywhere. And Mycroft is going crazy in the kitchen, he won't stop screaming about some broken toy. I don't know, but I need help Mum."

"Okay, you wait right there, I'll be over in just a sec'."

And she was. In less than five minutes, Jane Turner came into the little flat in Hackney, took one look around, and knew exactly what to do.

"Mum!" Margaret hugged her mother with a grin. She felt safe now. Jane broke out of the hug as fast as possible. "Okay, we got no time to find a car for the hospital. Instead we're gonna deliver the babe hear. And don't complain," she held her hand up when Margaret started to protest. "This is the only thing possible. It's not my fault you married that stupid man." With that, she walked over to her daughter's bedroom to prepare the bed. Margaret shut her eyes, partly from the pain in her stomach, partly from the pulling urge she was getting to just slap her mother.

"Maggie, come! We have a baby to deliver."

Back in the pub, James and Oliver had just got done playing a round of darts. Oliver had won, naturally. James could barely even throw it high enough to hit the board, and Oliver easily dominated. It was around that time that James' girl walked over.

"Hello." She said quietly at him. She was much more understated than her larger than life husband. "Joanne this is my mate Oliver," James paused and turned to Oliver, "that's yer name right? Oliver? Oscar? Omar-" James stopped talking right then, losing his train of thought in his drunkenness. "It don't matter either way, anyway this is Joanne." Oliver nodded at her.

"Look, James I gotta be goin'. My wife's bothered already probably. She's always bothered." Oliver muttered.

"Okay friend! You go to that wife of yers. He's got a son, Joanne, just like I always wanted. And he got a daughter on the way!" Joanne nodded and smiled at Oliver.

"Well good luck on the daughter Oliver. Girls can be handful!" Joanne smiled warmly at him.

Oliver mumble something about how they couldn't possibly be worse than boys, and stumbled out of the bar. His tiredness was starting to kick in, and he wanted to get home.

Mr. Waters waved to him from the bakery and he waved back, and while passing Rose Mcgovern's house she came out to chat to him for a while, but he dismissed her as politely as he could. Halfway to Hackney he met a man selling packets of a white powder, and though on any other day he might have been interested, today was not that day.

When he finally reached their street, he decided to stop for a fag or two at Tesco's. He leaned up against the old alley wall to try to stabilize him as he smoked. He started to think about that woman at the bar. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair, the most beautiful face he'd ever seen. She also had the prettiest hazel eyes. While other people chattered about how pretty green eyes wore, Oliver never did. He appreciated the browns and the hazels, the girls who could blend in but stand out if needed. It was something special in that.

Margaret had the brightest green eyes imaginable. It was the first thing he noticed about her. Her long, curly brown hair had attracted many a man throughout the years. But Oliver wasn't attracted to her hair or her eyes, like so many of her suitors were. In fact, Oliver wasn't that attracted to her at all. He preferred blondes, and when they met they were only seventeen, which is hardly a time for boys to appreciate girls for more than their looks.

Oliver shook his head and snapped out of his memories. He tossed the cigarette into the alley, and walked the rest of the streets to his little building. They lived in the first little brown door by the alley and across from the pawn shop. Hopping up the steps, Oliver opened up the door and instantly knew something was off. Mycroft sat on the couch holding his ears to his head as tightly as he could.

"Mycroft, what's wrong?" Oliver got out, fighting back slurs. His son could always figure out when he was drunk, and the last thing Margaret needed was more ammunition to get mad at him.

Da'! Mum she's in there! She's having the baby!" Mycroft sputtered out.

"What?" Oliver almost shouted as he hurried into the bedroom.

The scene he opened to looked almost like a horror movie. The bed was covered in what looked like blood, and his wife's night gown was soaked in the same blood. She lay sweaty on their bed, while Jane stood holding her hand.

"Ollie!" Margaret said, her eyes brightening up. If he'd walked in any earlier she would have been livid, but now holding the most wonderful thing in the world, she couldn't bother to be mad.

"You had the baby? Without me?" Oliver sputtered out, still in shock.

"Well you weren't really available were you now?" Jane spat out.

"Hey don't you go at it right now you two! Ollie you come over here and hold your son!" Margaret grinned at him as he looked even more shocked.

"S-son?" He couldn't believe it. They'd thought for long that it'd had to be a girl. "But that old woman in Chinatown said she knew it was a girl?" Oliver said as he walked to the the other side of the bed, avoiding his mother-in-law's icy stare.

"Well she was wrong I guess! I don't care. He's perfect anyways!" She smiled at her son as he handed him to her husband.

As Oliver saw his son's eyes for the first time, his earlier thoughts in the bar subsided. He realized this was his second chance- his second chance to make everything alright. He'd bring his boy to the Chelsea match every week. They would go fishing up North once he got old enough. And he would help him pick out a suit for winter formal when he found a good girl. He would be everything his other boy couldn't be. He would be his perfect son.

He made a small promise to his small boy right then, a silent promise. As his wife and mother-in-law looked on, he looked into his son's eyes and promised to give him the best life possible. He wouldn't make his mistakes, he wouldn't be in a job he hated or living in a tiny flat with two kids and a wife by age 25. He'd make something of himself. He leaned down and kissed the boy's face, so filled with joy he could barely stand it.

"Now we gotta make a choice Ollie. What are we gonna name that little bug?" Margaret asked.

"Wouldn't Robert be so nice Maggie? Name him after Father, he would be so pleased you know!" Jane answered before Oliver ever had the chance.

"Yeah but Robert mum? That's such an old name. It's a name for people getting out of the war mum, for sixty year old men like Dad. I don't I was thinking something like Camer-"

"Sherlock," Oliver interrupted before she could finish. "How about Sherlock? Doesn't that have a ring to it? Sherlock Holmes, son of Oliver and Margaret…"

Jane looked down at Margaret with a look full of disdain, but she wasn't paying attention. She was staring up at her husband so confused and happy at how he was acting. The last time, he never cracked a real smile. He'd almost acted like he didn't want to be there. But now… Now his face was bright enough to light the room up. He was grinning from ear to ear, and when he said Sherlock, he sounded so sure.

"Yeah, it does. Sherlock… Yeah. That's it. That's what we'll call him."

Oliver looked down and grinned for a moment and then was drawn back to the baby in his arms. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes barely more than a squint, and let out a loud cry and stretched his arms out of the little pink blanket he was wrapped up in, and with that everybody in the house was in love with him. Margaret let out an "Aww." And Jane leaned forward, smiling. Out in the den, Mycroft took his hands off his ears, and looked into the doorway. He had never liked children crying, but something about how loud and how strong that cry was just drew Mycroft into the room. He joined him Gran and Father standing and he grabbed onto his mom's hand.

And for one night, they just stood around smiling and laughing. Everytime Sherlock would move or even whimper, they would all be filled with even more love. For that one night, the family never meant to be happy, were so happy they could barely contain it.