Title: Baby Makes Three
Chapter: 1/6
Rating: T
Warnings: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death
Pairings: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)
Spoilers: For all seasons of Sherlock
Summary: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?
Author's Note: This is a continuation of events stemming from "His Last Vow", as they might possibly play out. I wasn't going for a full-length continuation of season 3, but just a nice little exploration of the characters and their interactions, all revolving around what will prove to be a pretty significant event. A story in six parts and I will post chapters once a week.
Of course, all credit for these characters goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the Sherlock Holmes stories and Moffat and Gatiss for moving these beloved characters into the 21st century. Constructive criticism is welcome as I am always looking to improve. As always, everything I write is for the glory of God, who is the Lord of life and birthdays. Enjoy!
Sherlock Holmes heard the tinkle of china even before her step began ascending the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was bringing him morning tea. He did not bother to stop playing. Conversation was not a task he particularly enjoyed this early in the morning, and currently his mind was preoccupied. He sincerely hoped – though it was doubtful – she would deliver the tea and leave. He threw himself with more vehemence in his music, bringing the bow a little more harshly across the strings than he intended and marring the melody. "Hoo hoo," she rapped on the doorjamb seconds later. He could almost hear the grin in her voice. There would be no getting rid of her. He stopped playing, preparing to the face the inevitable. "Is that one new?" she asked him as she sat down the tray.
"Yes," he answered her, tapping his stand with his bow. "I've found a collection of sheets I've neglected to learn. Understandably, though. They're all show tunes and regrettably dull."
"That one you were playing was lovely though. Rather bright and sunny. I do love a good show tune."
Sherlock started to make some remark about the prosaic themes that cluttered the overly sentimental plots of stage productions these days and ridicule their unimaginative songs, but he felt Mrs. Hudson's eyes – and grin – on him. He turned to find her face beaming ridiculously as she held out a muffin perched on her more expensive china employed only for special occasions. The flickering flame sunk deep within the muffin gave away her purpose.
"Oh, is it today?" he muttered with a sigh. He turned towards his chair to retrieve his phone to check the date. Mrs. Hudson let out a laugh, for some reason finding this wickedly funny. "It's your birthday," she cackled. "You must know your own birthday."
"Most of the time it is completely irrelevant," he uttered, tossing his phone away again having confirmed the date. It was January 6th. Mrs. Hudson sat down the muffin, flame still dancing, and started to pour him a cup. "You at least must know how old you're turning," she suggested.
Sherlock retrieved his phone again, and Mrs. Hudson continued to have a chuckle at his expense. He did not understand why ordinary people relished in celebrating days of birth; he could not see that marking another year past had any relevance. "Thirty-nine," he articulated.
"That old," she mocked. He scowled to match the intensity of her smile, and she merely held up the muffin for him to take. He took it but refused to extinguish the flame. Mrs. Hudson gave him a pointed stare, and he suppressed a groan as he blew it out with hardly a breath. Childish nonsense, but it pleased Mrs. Hudson tremendously. He figured he could indulge her once.
After inhaling his muffin, suddenly finding himself hungrier than he previously thought, he sipped his tea quietly. Mrs. Hudson shifted through the papers, clearing a space as she sat down in John's chair with a tired sigh. "Sherlock, did you see the papers?" she noted, flashing the morning edition of the Times at him. "That lovely girl – you know the one opening that new stage production at the Albert – she's gone missing – without a trace. Now there's something to suit your fancy." Sherlock leaned forward to snatch the paper out of her hand. He gave the article a quick perusal. Then he tossed it over his shoulder. "Run away with her secret lover – really not worth my time."
Mrs. Hudson ogled. "How can you know that?"
"Isn't that what all women of stage do nowadays? I won't be surprised if she turns up in Antigua with the man in tow and his 'bun in the oven'."
"Sherlock Holmes," she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Shameful." He hummed carelessly and took another swallow of tea. Mrs. Hudson quickly turned the conversation to pleasanter realms, chatting away about show tunes and some of her particular favorites. "I always loved to sing them," she confessed, "but I never could find a recording that had all my favorites. A shame really." Sherlock merely grunted his way through the conversation, blissfully thankful when they finally sat in silence.
After some time, Mrs. Hudson interrupted the tranquility. "Heard anything from John?" Sherlock took a large gulp of his tea and winced as it burned his throat on the way down. He set aside his cup and took up his phone once more to scroll back through his messages. He had received the first group text from John early this morning.
Mary's contractions have started.
Then a few minutes later:
Heading to hospital. St. Mary's.
There had been a lull before the next one:
Baby's not quite ready. Going for a walk.
Nearly an hour later Sherlock was glad to see John coping with the situation delightfully well:
That would be a long walk…
He snorted upon revisiting that one.
It was almost nine o'clock, and John Watson had been completely silent for the last four hours. Sherlock would be lying to himself if he did not admit that it concerned him – a bit.
"Nothing more than you have I'm afraid." Sherlock took up his tea again to avoid answering any more questions. Mrs. Hudson sighed. "The poor dear," she clucked, "they are so understaffed in hospitals these days. I wonder how long they'll make Mary wait for a room. I once knew a woman – an acquaintance of mine – who was in labor for five days before they gave her a room. Five days!"
"I highly doubt that will happen to Mary," Sherlock assured her, though certain her anecdote was unlikely and a tad bit exaggerated. Mrs. Hudson only sighed dramatically. Then her cartoonish delight returned. "Oh, just think – what if Mary has the baby today? The baby'll share your birthday, you know."
Now Sherlock did audibly groan as he reached for another digestive biscuit. He had to get rid of her. "Don't you have something you could be doing?" he suggested.
"I do, in fact," she admitted with suppressed laughter. "Laundry. It's yours."
"Then, by all means, don't let me keep you from it, woman."
"Cheeky." Sherlock abandoned his cup, half drunk, for the violin. Mrs. Hudson made herself domestic as he shifted through his music, attempting to pick something against which his thoughts could flow freely. Thumbing through, he paused on a title that he had heard Mrs. Hudson mention earlier. That was when he noticed the quality of the paper. He bent down to sniff it, finding it crisp and fresh – not the smell that should be emanating from music that had been tucked away in his collection for ages. This music was new. He read the title again and clearly heard Mrs. Hudson's voice echoing through his Mind Palace.
"I always loved to sing them, but I never could find a recording that had all my favorites. A shame really."
All her favorites…
"Mrs. Hudson," he called out suddenly, turning to find her already gone. Tossing his violin aside, he hurried after her. Luckily she was still standing on the landing, her expression drawn in concern with his outburst. Immediately he grabbed her and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. It was met with a stunned but pleased expression. He returned her smile with a smirk of his own before he hurried back to the sitting room. Taking up the violin with a practiced motion, he tucked the instrument beneath his chin and started into a dramatic rendition of Think of Me. He heard her humming along even before her step began descending the stairs.