This is my response to a 'head canon' that I read which I cannot remember word for word but, paraphrased, was something along the lines of "Baby Watson was still born". This is a two part story, one chapter is Sherlock and John, the other Molly and Mary. Obviously, this is set after The Sign of Three but before His Last Vow. I would like to note that Janine is not featured in this story and, instead, I like the idea of Sherlock and Molly being a background relationship at this time.
I admit that it's nothing too in depth, but I wanted to give it a try and see how it turned out.
As usual, sorry in advance for any mistakes.
Chapter 1 is Sherlock and John; Chapter 2 is Molly and Mary.
Baby Watson
The consulting detective tore his gaze away from his subpar experiment at the tell-tale sound of the bottom door opening, knowing that the door was locked and Mrs. Hudson was in, there was only one person who had access to the flat. Barring Mycroft, who had access to everything. The footsteps that began to tiredly ascend the stairs were heavy and the shoes audibly scraped the steps, as though the body dragging them didn't have the energy to do so. Sherlock was on his feet, his experiment abandoned, and waiting in the centre of the room for his friend before the door to the flat had opened.
Sherlock didn't ask any questions when his best friend entered the room, his eyes reddened with exhaustion and emotion, his hair messy as though he had been repetitively running his fingers through it. He didn't need to. Mary had gone into labour in the wee hours of that morning, John had text Sherlock to let him know, two months premature. John's current posture and gait told the man all that he needed to know.
Sherlock stepped forwards, closing the space between them and wordlessly enveloped the trembling doctor in an unexpectedly strong embrace. It appeared that the uncharacteristic display of affection was all the incentive John needed to allow his crumbling barrier to fall and himself to break down in tears, the substance soaking the shoulder of the detective's burgundy dressing gown as his left hand held his head against his shoulder gently.
"Sherlock," John sobbed out, choking momentarily on the air he was trying desperately to breathe in. At the obvious despair in John's voice, Sherlock purposely tightened his hold on the ex-army medic.
"I'm here," Sherlock whispered softly in response, his tone genuine and it was all the confirmation that John needed. The detective remained standing in an uncomfortable hunched position, trying his hardest to bring at least a small bit of comfort to his, understandably, distressed friend.
Sherlock and John stayed like that until the tightness in the detective's back, a lasting result of the torture he had endured, transitioned into a pain that he found he could not ignore and his legs began to ache. He stretched, trying not to groan, and guided John to the sofa, watching as he flopped gracelessly onto the designated bit of furniture, staring up at him with scarily vacant eyes.
Sherlock set about brewing some tea for his friend before retrieving a blanket that was large enough to cover the both of them. He joined him on the sofa, handing over the steaming beverage and covering both his and John's legs with the blanket, silently coaxing him into resting his head on his shoulder and wrapping his arm around him to continue the comforting embrace.
Thank you for reading; I'd love to know what you think.
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