"Mary?" John's voice hitched, his chest stuttered willingly ignoring the necessity. "Mary?! Please, oh dear god, love... no you cannot..."

Gregory was on the scene in moments, he had heard the callout and recognised the description. Christ, John had just texted that they were headed to hospital since Mary had finally neared active labour.

God, the two of them had nerves of steel to even wait that long; but what else could he expect from an ex-army doctor turned surgeon and his lovely who was a neonatal doctor herself? He prayed to the heavens he was wrong, but turned on the lights and sped to the scene.

Sherlock had been on the periphery, he had only been back two months. Just long enough to begin to heal the hurt in his and John's former life, for Mary to tell him that John still loved him, but that the doctor was hers now. Their child's now.

That he would have to be content as the uncle that she knew John would want him to be. That she wanted him to be. They could work it all out as it came. She was as steady and calm about their future as family, it had disarmed him.

His mobile chimed, alerting him to a text from John. It had to be time. He had been told earlier that Mary had gone into labour around three that morning, he had joked about the birthing hour and half-deduced a late evening birth as they, even being first-time parents, would get through this as if this was the fifth in their brood.

John had liked that thought, Mary had quipped at him to shut it. How appropriate. He'd called ahead to the florist that Mycroft fancied and had a hand-tied bouquet prepared for pick-up right at their closing.

Peonies, roses, and berries of some sort, all in Mary's prefered blush tones, brought together with some deep bluish-purple buds. Tasteful, appropriate, the blue the hint that Sherlock had known without a doubt that there would be a son in his best friends' lives very shortly.

In his life, his godson Hamish Magnus Watson would breathe his first breath sometime before eight that evening. Silly of them to think that he wouldn't have been able to keep the deduction to himself.

So very much blood, too much. Mary tried to speak. John could not hear, so he leaned even closer to her mouth, murmurs of comfort stilled so that he might be able to hear her. His heart broke, just shattered at her words. No, she could not leave him, it just was not on. Not right, their child had to be ebbing as well... nonononono this was not happening.

The D.I. was on the scene just as they were placing the gurney into the ambulance, John at the ready to jump in. He was able to fire a quick question to the harried doctor as to which hospital they were headed to before they whisked the couple away.

Gregory nodded grimly at D.I. Dimmock who had been first on scene making this his sodded mess. Poor bloke, he'd definitely be ready for a few pints tonight. He'd ring him after he knew... after.

Damn.

John had been just covered, but looked hardly scathed, Mary though... better not to think too far down that path, as yet. The cabbie and cab alike were obliterated. Same with the other vehicle, but the driver seemed not to be in too bad a shape. Probably drunk. Been off work a few hours... possible. Not his concern, he had to remind himself. Not now. Later, after. After. He slammed the door and headed directly to Bart's.

Sherlock breezed into Molly's office, only to find her not there. Odd, she must have headed up to the ward already, which honestly he was fine with. Possible that she and Greg had been together when the text came through from their friends. They'd be announcing their own imminent parenthood to them all in just a few days time, after the Watsons had settled back at Baker Street.

He'd let them keep their secret. It had all been because of the wedding that the two got together in the first place from what Sherlock understood, good for them both.

Sherlock headed up to the ward, expecting to see a pacing Lestrade and a jubilant, ecstatic Molly, but they were nowhere to be seen. Sherlock grimaced and felt the off nature, especially when he was told by one of the nurses that the Watsons were not there on that floor. His heart sunk to his stomach, the nurse was still speaking words he no longer heard as he walked away, his mobile chiming once again. This time Lestrade.

Accident. Bad. At Bart's in A&E. Mary and baby. Hurry.

He had never run so fast in his life, as he took those steps two or three at a time. John, John would need him. Mary... Hamish... No. Not tonight. Not again. John... he would be devastated. They had to live... had to.

Sherlock raised his mobile, speed-dialing Mycroft, filled him in and pleaded as he got to the final flight of stairs to have the best neo-natal care here for them. He promised anything, he did not care. He would not let John down again.

They took Mary back, and of course, of course he knew he could not follow. He could not assist, but damn it to hell if he wouldn't wait as close as possible to the surgery doors. He was losing his wife, possibly their child... where else would he be?

The nurse pulled him to the closest counter and began the arduous task of information gathering from him; he himself had to be seen, but much later, he promised her. He had people coming, yes, they would see to him, make sure he was seen while Mary was... while they fixed her, delivered their baby. Oh god, he wouldn't be there...

Yes, the child would be able to be seen after... after. Maybe the neo-natal ward... would be for the best, he agreed. No, it was their first, they didn't know the sex just were hoping for healthy... then the world spun to black.

Just enough for him to grab the counter and feel the wrongness of the laminate beneath his fingers. He heard his name and whipped round at the sound, the voice like a lightning strike, electrifying his systems all over again forcing the adrenaline to push once again through his body to keep him on high alert. This was a battlefield once again. One he, sadly, could not breach as yet.

His friend, his closest...

Sherlock skidded to a ramshackle halt, bouquet dangling from his long fingers as he assessed John's... oh... Mary.

"John... It's alright." Sherlock lied. He knew as well as John how this would play out. "I'm here, I'm sure the Lestrades will be shortly. Let's get you looked at. You know Mary and... the baby will be in fine hands for now."

"Sherlock-" John tried to speak but his knees buckled once again, this time he could not stop them, but Sherlock, Sherlock was there to catch him. "I don't know... we never did..."

"It's a boy, John. Hamish, your Hamish will need you very soon, I'm sure. Let's get you what you need... I'll not leave you again."

Six hours later, John welcomed Hamish into his arms. He cried, for everything. His son... their son... Mary should be here, not still in... not the time to break down again.

"Want to hold him then?" He looked up towards Sherlock, tried to steady himself. "A godfather should get acquainted, you know..." It wasn't that John couldn't stand to hold his son, not that he couldn't handle the dichotomy of joy and absolute despair these first moments held.

"Of course," Sherlock shifted the scratchy bands that itched his sensitive skin. But they were a lifeline, a tether, to John and Hamish. "God, John, he is beautiful."

It wasn't usual protocol, but Mycroft had seen to him getting the bands so he could be in neo-natal if John couldn't.

Sherlock raised the baby into the crook of his arm and softly smiled, his face gentling in the awe of the life that was connected to the man he loved more then anything.

"He looks like-"

"You both." Sherlock interrupted. "Mary's dark hair, the steel grey speaks of blue eyes to come... he's perfect you know."

Gregory and Molly had gone back to her office until they could be of use. Thank God her sofa had a pullout... the two rested, inseparable as she cried herself to sleep. He got a text from John saying Hamish Magnus was healthy and he and Sherlock were with him, but that Mary still was just out of surgery, that it looked bleak. Sherlock followed up twelve minutes later giving which AICU room Mary was in.

He didn't think she'd make it out of the induced coma, but didn't want that passed to Molly or John. Gregory had to agree. They'd been up in a few and would spell John if he'd let them. He held Molly a bit closer, thanking God that they were all safe.

Maybe they should wait a little longer to spread the news Molly carried. He had never felt more protective in his entire life. Never more blessed than at that moment. To be able to kiss her hair and breathe her in...

Mary's hair blew gently in the breeze. They were in Paris on their honeymoon, this was the week Hamish had been conceived... perfect. Everything was right. She was smiling, laughing at the gust as it tangled her perfectly flaxen-honey coloured hair. Later, she'd allow it to darken back out, opting not to chemically change her hair while pregnant.

Gravid belly, full of his child... God he worshiped her often, the altar of her body everchanging. He had not known the fullness of a human heart until then.

But now, this moment, she was a will o' the wisp, alight from the interior, luminous and wanting. John would always have these memories, would be able to share them one day if his Mary couldn't come back. He knew the chances, knew what her wishes were. If this were to happen, he'd have to talk to Sherlock, have Greg and Mols there for it.

For Hamish, they'd need to care for him for just a little while... a day for John to get over the grief. For Sherlock to comes to terms with Mary's proposal. They were going to ask him back to Baker Street anyway, Mrs. Hudson having moved next door with Mrs. Turner to keep her company now that she was no longer letting the flats she owned.

The two old ladies loved to titter and keep on, kept them young, they said. They were going to see if he wanted 'A' for himself, knew he would never refuse. He'd have Mycroft soundproof the place so Mary... so he and Hamish wouldn't keep disturbing him when he was in the middle of something delicate.

Her hair... God she was gorgeous. Is so now... so fair, his very own Snow White. Sleeping under a spell... him praying once again at her feet, this time in reverence and awed thanks for their child she might never meet.

Sherlock had not known her long, but he knew. Knew Mary was right for John, all goodness and strength. Faith; the faith that woman had in John rivaled his own. He came in to spell John, sat as the machines susurrations filled the room, her vitals visible, but the stability was medicinally induced... they all knew that this was a period to adjust before the goodbye to this woman.

The beekeeper, her name for him. She was crack of the whip smart, John's Mary, with a mouth to match it. She'd buzz at him trilling nonsense to get him to shut his mouth, telling him frequently to go mind his hives, not theirs. The memory caused a small chuckle in the otherwise quiet room.

"Honey, Sherlock. That is what keeps, sweetens life. Bees want nothing to do with vinegar, or with singular living. They need the colony just as you need John, need your tribe you've created, that still care even after it all. Be a good keeper, Sherlock."

She sometimes could be quite sage, he thought. He would miss those combative playful spats, the truths that were gleaned. The probability that Hamish would be that way would be less now, but Sherlock could try to mold him a bit toward his mother. Toward the lightness everyone saw in her before the darkness finally took her from those who cared. Who had an interest.

This is the story of how John became a widower and father, Sherlock a parent as well, and the movements between grief to life after.