A/N: Happy FanFiction Friday, one and all! I am excited to celebrate this fine day with a new offering. This story takes place about 2 years after Swaddled in Pink, and 15ish years before Fish Tales. The incident here is mentioned in Fish Tales though, and by the end will give a whole new meaning to several scenes in that story.

It is important to note that this story started as a one-shot. It truly did. And then I spoke to my person (hi, angeli0722! you've been outed!) and it completely grew from there. We'll call it a mini-series now. A story in 4 parts. Anyway, my person is a big supporter of 1) huge elaborate back stories for characters, and 2) "the crazy" so this is for her. Complaints? You all now know where to send them.

Countless thanks also to TheWheelWeaves (as always) for putting up with my crazy, for encouraging and pitching in when needed, and for her mad beta skillz. Too many commas, I know.

Also thank you to veritascara for previewing the beginning and answering some medical questions for me. That's the part that I was least sure about for this one...

And now on with the show!

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Part 1: Pain & Suffering

Sherlock rested his head against the taxi window as the car approached Baker Street, completely exhausted after yet another game of cat and mouse. This latest case had stretched on for far longer than he would like and no end was currently in sight.

As he stepped out of the car in front of the flat, he was vaguely aware of the sound of police sirens that were quickly disappearing around the corner. Fleetingly, he wondered if it was something he should pursue, but after the night he had all he really wanted was to kiss his wife and take some time to disappear into the wonderful oblivion that was listening to his daughter's slow, steady breathing as she slept.

Unfortunately, neither of these options was in the cards.

Opening the front door, Sherlock was met with the unmistakable sound of Jacqueline crying. Only she wasn't upstairs in her room, but instead appeared to be with Mrs. Hudson. Rushing to the landlady's rooms he all but snatched the sobbing toddler from the older woman's arms.

"What happened? Is she hurt?" he demanded, giving her a hurried once-over. Having satisfied himself that the child was fine, he kissed her head and held her close, hoping to calm her down a bit.

"Thank god you're home, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson sighed, her hand over her heart and a look of deep sorrow on her face. "It's Rose..."

"Where is she?"

"You just missed them. Greg put her in the car to head to St. Bart's-"

The sirens. He knew that he should have followed them, and yet he came inside instead. "It's too soon," he breathed, his thoughts suddenly struggling to catch up with what was happening. Handing a marginally calmer Jacqueline back to Mrs. Hudson, he turned to run for the door. "I have to go."

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson agreed. "Just let me know what happens, and give Rose my-" she heard the door slam behind Sherlock. "Love." Sighing, she shifted the baby in her arms and headed for the stairs. "How about we get you back to bed, sweetheart? All will be well in the morning."

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It took only a split second after Rose had doubled over in pain for Greg Lestrade to jump into action. One moment she was making tea in the kitchen as he waited in the sitting room for Sherlock to return, and the next he heard the sound of a mug shattering on the floor and a sharp yelp of pain. Without thinking, Lestrade gathered Rose up in his arms and hurried down the stairs, painfully aware of the sounds of a crying baby emanating from the opposite direction.

Rose was no stranger to pain, but she had never experienced anything like this. When she went into labour with Jackie the contractions had been painful, but manageable. This, though, was something completely different. She knew instinctively that something was wrong... She was only at 23 weeks, far too soon for labour to set in.

Vaguely aware of Greg barking at Mrs. Hudson to check on Jackie, Rose moaned as another searing pain jolted through her abdomen. "Sherlock," she hissed.

"Hospital first, Rose," Greg replied, carefully laying her across the back seat of his car, before hopping into the driver's seat. "Now to find your useless husband, yeah?" Turning back to smile at Rose, the sight that met his eyes made him turn on the siren and take off without hesitation: she was curled up into herself across the seat, her hands clutching her stomach and beads of sweat across her brow as she bit her lip and nodded slightly in response.

There were several unsuccessful attempts to reach Sherlock on his mobile - for some inconvenient reason it kept going directly to voicemail - before Greg decided to call John instead. "Come on," he growled as the phone rang a third time before someone finally answered.

"Greg?" John asked.

"Sherlock. Bart's. Now," Greg barked, swerving slightly to avoid an oncoming car. Glancing again in the rear-view to check on Rose, who only looked paler, he took a deep breath. "It's Rose."

"Oh, God," John breathed. "We'll meet you there."

Feeling somewhat reassured that John would come through on finding Sherlock, Greg tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. "Almost there, Rose."

Rose nodded mutely, her jaw tightly clamped shut against the pain. She could only hope that they would arrive at the hospital soon, and prayed that Sherlock would be right behind them. She experienced the vague sensation of the car coming to a full stop when a final blinding pain shot through her and everything went dark.

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Sherlock tried repeatedly to reach Lestrade on his mobile, but was thwarted by voicemail every time. Armed solely with the knowledge of where they were heading, he was about to try calling Molly when a text message alert caught his attention.

Where the bloody hell are you? ~JW

He stared at the message for a split second, contemplating its meaning. More than likely, Lestrade had contacted John when he was unable to reach him directly. Which meant that John was at least aware of the situation.

On my way. Three minutes out. ~SH

Turning his attention to the driver, he realized that they were slowing for a red light. "£100 to run the light. Now drive!" he commanded. Yelling at someone felt good, it made him feel ever so slightly in control when he knew that whatever was waiting for him would be completely out of his hands. His mind reeled with every possibility, every scenario that he might face when he entered the hospital doors, and none were easing his concern.

Throwing a handful of cash at the driver, Sherlock raced across the sidewalk and into the old building. Normally, as he walked through these doors, he knew that satisfaction was close at hand. Now, however, he had a feeling that he would not be satisfied with anything he learned here today.

"Rose Tyler-Holmes," he barked at the nurse sitting behind reception. "Where is she?"

The nurse blinked up at him, but couldn't bring herself to be completely annoyed. "Sir, if you would please-"

"Where is my wife?"

"Sherlock!"

Relief. That was the only word to describe the feeling that immediately washed over him. Lestrade was here, which meant Rose was here. He would have answers. No, that wasn't right. If Lestrade was here in reception with him, then no one was with Rose. In the blink of an eye, the relief was replaced with dread. Taking in the man before him, he knew his instinct was correct. Lestrade was pale, he looked defeated as he stood there. But that was nothing compared to the blood stains on left side of his jacket.

"What happened," he demanded, nearly hissing through clenched teeth.

"They're not entirely sure," Greg replied. "But she's in surgery now."

All of Sherlock's carefully cultivated bravado suddenly disappeared. "Surgery?" His voice was barely a whisper, and he knew that he was radiating fear and uncertainty, but he couldn't be bothered to care. His Rose had been rushed to the hospital and now was undergoing some sort of procedure and he was not with her. "Where?"

Greg knew better than to start answering any additional questions in the reception area. Sherlock would want to talk to the doctors, see Rose for himself. So, instead of simply standing there, he led the man through the sterile corridors and explained what little he knew, what he had witnessed, until they reached the labour and delivery wing and a doctor could be found.

Arriving at the nurses' station, Greg was relieved to see that someone was already there waiting for them. Molly was standing there, a grave expression on her face, ready to run interference with the nursing staff if need be. After Rose was rushed off to the operating theatre, Lestrade knew that he needed to wait at the main entrance for Sherlock. However, he didn't feel comfortable leaving the wing unmanned. Knowing that Molly was in the building already, she was the only person that he could think of to call to take up his vigil as he went to find Sherlock - hoping that John was successful in his task.

"Sit down," she said gently, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Not until I see Rose," he hissed.

"You can't yet, Sherlock," she chided. "Her doctor will be out soon, but she's already been put under and they've begun the procedure-"

"What procedure!" he all but roared. Why was nobody giving him answers? "They can't operate without consent-"

"A placental abruption," Molly said quietly, effectively cutting him off. "They think she suffered from a placental abruption."

Sherlock stared at his friend in disbelief, not really seeing her at all. There was no reason why this should be happening. Collapsing onto the uncomfortable waiting room sofa, Sherlock took his head in his hands. As the minutes passed, he was vaguely aware of voices talking to - or about - him, but couldn't be bothered to respond. He needed to be with Rose, to see that she was alright. He felt the tremors in his hands begin to take hold.

Time seemed to hold no meaning for him as he waited for news of Rose and the baby. It might have been only a few minutes, an hour, or even a year for all that Sherlock noticed. All that he knew was that it felt like forever, and no one from the hospital had yet come to speak with him, to update them on Rose's condition. He looked up, somewhat surprised to find that their party had grown in number from simply Lestrade and Molly to now include John, Mary and even Mycroft. He tilted his head, peering suspiciously at his brother who nodded solemnly at the unexpected eye contact. Of course he was here - it was Rose. She brought them all together. This was their family.

Family. Jacqueline. It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that he had left her with Mrs. Hudson, who would no doubt be concerned about Rose as well. Thoughts like this never would have crossed his mind before, but now they were somewhat commonplace. He cared for these people, and knew that they cared for him. He just couldn't stand to be near them right now.

Jumping up, he started to pace the room, still ignoring those around him. He was anxious. Once upon a time, he would have willingly given this feeling over to the oblivion of heroin. For now he would settle for a cigarette. Just as he was about to make the foolish pronouncement, something caught his eye.

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped as he saw an unconscious Rose being wheeled away from him on a hospital bed. Everyone - and everything - else forgotten, he ran forward, pushing a nurse aside so that he could take her hand in his. It didn't escape his notice that her hand was icy.

"Sir!" the nurse admonished. "We need to move the patient into recovery-"

"She is not simply 'the patient,'" Sherlock growled, his eyes never leaving his wife's face.

"Of course not, Mr. Holmes. But we do need to get her into recovery before she can be moved to a private room. I promise, I will come and fetch you once she's ready."

"And the baby?"

"The doctor will be out shortly to speak with you."

Pain lanced through Sherlock's very core at her words. There was no mistaking the meaning behind them, no hope for anything other than simply surviving. He looked down at Rose, her face so peaceful as she was still under the effects of the anaesthetic, who had no idea what sort of heartbreak she was going to wake to. He released her hand and watched as the nursing staff moved her away from him and through another set of doors. All he could do was stand there, in the corridor, numb.

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Rose sat in an armchair by the sole window in her hospital room, staring outside but not seeing anything. The doctors and nurses insisted that moving would be good for her, even if it meant simply walking laps around the central nurses station on the floor. She couldn't bring herself to do it though - seeing the happy faces of new parents in the ward, hearing the sounds of crying babies from the nursery - it was too much. Instead, she chose to withdraw into herself.

Sherlock entered the room as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Rose. Seeing her sitting by the window, he sighed with short-lived relief. He knew that if she was mobile the hospital would release her. The doctor had told him as much. She needed to get away from this horrible place; she belonged at home with him and Jacqueline. He could see that she was wilting before his very eyes, her very essence faded away.

"Rose," he said, trying to pull her attention. Kneeling beside her, he took her hand in his and pressed his lips to her palm. "Tomorrow, Tulip. You can come home tomorrow."

She nodded slightly in acknowledgment, but pulled her hand from his grasp. "Tomorrow," she echoed, her voice hollow and her expression blank.

"Tomorrow."

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Three weeks passed, and Rose hadn't spoken a word. Upon arriving home to Baker Street, she settled into an old recliner by the window of the sitting room and had barely moved since. She couldn't bring herself to lie in the bed that she and her husband shared, she couldn't face the stairs to check on Jackie in the nursery, she barely ate and hardly slept.

Sherlock did what he could to ensure that she was cared for: he brought her food, water, and tea; he encouraged Jacqueline to talk to her and bring her drawings; he carried her into the tub and bathed her. Yet somehow at her lack of response, her lack of improvement, he knew it wasn't enough.

One evening he finally reached his breaking point, and tried yelling at her. "You need to stop this! Snap out of it already!"

Rose simply blinked and turned her head away from him in response.

"I lost him too, dammit!" Bending down to lean against the arms of the chair, he looked her directly in the eyes. "He was my son too."

"And you can have a hundred more!" she screamed, breaking her silence for the first time. She pushed him away from her and stood, all but running to their bedroom and slamming the door behind her.

Understanding flooded Sherlock, but before he could give chase, a cry sounded from upstairs. Apparently Rose had woken Jacqueline from her nap.

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A/N: Typical plea for reviews. They are always appreciated, so make me smile?