Author's note: This is my celebratory 50th Fanfic, and is dedicated to my dear Teshka, who sent me a request that I still haven't written. Hope this'll do, instead...
This piece will alternate between some crazy angst to sickly-sweet fluff. Just what your feelings need while you wait for Series Three, right? Please,
please enjoy, and send in your thoughts, dear readers. I write for you, so I want you to like it.
Here we go!


A woman stumbled through the door, and slumped to the stairs outside. Her hands scanned vainly over her body, trying to find the pain, conceal it, and heal herself. There was one inevitable remedy.

"John!" her words were clearly played across her lips, despite the silent video-recording. Mycroft watched and slid his mobile from his pocket. He composed the following message:

Sherlock,
It's happening. Don't be late.
MH

John joined her, and clung desperately to her hands. He helped her to stand, and she leaned against him for balance. They did not notice the rain or the lightning flickering around them. John promised to find a cab, but this was difficult to do without abandoning her. He would not do that, ever.

Where?
SH

Bart's, I imagine.
You're going to owe me several thousand favours. All of them pounds.
MH

A car, sleek and black, approached the struggling couple. John glanced upward, relieved and thankful. He sighed before dragging open the heavy door, and helping his wife inside. The car, boasting wood and lovely leather trim, was not prepared for this task. It lumbered along beneath the added weight. The driver rolled up all of the windows.

Did you send a car?
SH

Of course I did. You'll be cleaning it.
MH

The cameras followed the car and the couple. The noise, thankfully, was not recorded or replayed.

Mary's screaming was terrible, and chilled the blood of John and the driver. John kept a hand over her wrist, and encouraged her breathing. The blood on the seats concerned him greatly, but he did not want to worry her.

The hospital appeared from behind a cloud of appropriately dismal fog. As the car stopped, John considered everything that could go wrong.

"Is it…" began Mary, buying each breath, "Am I… are we… okay? Will we be okay, John?"

He studied her tone, her presence, and her blood. His nod was slow and unconvincing. He was defined by loyalty, and thus, a very bad liar.

The driver opened the door for them, determined not to comment on the state of his employer's car.

Called a cab for you. Ready?
MH

Always. I will meet you there.
SH

Heavens, no. Rather busy…
MH

Sherlock paced outside of the Baker Street flat, and was startled when the cab approached him. The situation had occupied every room in his mind. Noting their route was not a sufficient distraction; he had to look at many of the street-signs multiple times. He shook his head and could not discern his location or direction of travel.

By the time he arrived at the hospital, John and Mary were already inside. He did not know what to say, in order to meet them. Something told him the word 'emergency' was far more effective than 'he's my friend.'

The nurses did not agree; he was confined to the lobby.

They won't let me in.
SH

You don't want to go in.
MH

Sherlock rolled his eyes, focusing on the camera that watched him through the hospital window. It shifted briefly from side to side; Mycroft's way of indicating he was watching and waving.

He shoved past the nurses and stood outside the proper door, guided there by Mary's scheduled screams, and John's insistence that he was a doctor, and genuinely wanted to help.

Sherlock stood outside and leaned his forehead against the small slot of sterile glass. This was somewhat above his usual eye-level, aiming for constant privacy. There was no way for John's eyes to meet Sherlock's.

They did not try; John stomped around the room, offering instruction until the working doctors became annoyed. He was provided a cup of tea, but would not drink it.

"Perhaps it would be best for you to wait outside, Dr Watson," the words of a nurse echoed through the door. Sherlock nodded, and looked for John. His shadow inched under the door, fuzzy against the bleached tiles.

"Please," mumbled Sherlock. The words did not want to be heard, but needed to be expressed beyond thought.

Are you there?
MH

Something's wrong. Tell me what's wrong.
SH

How would I know?
MH

Find out.
SH

The things I do for you…
MH

John had to be escorted from the room, by the same nurse.

Mycroft consulted every resource he had. Anthea set a medical journal on his desk, open and highlighted, while she was on hold with the hospital front desk.

"Sherlock?"

John made no sound. His lips were dry and stuck open. His eyes were dim and exhausted of energy and emotion. His breaths were shaky and sudden.

Sherlock stared at him, and reached for his arm. John allowed him to take it. He would allow any distraction.

"Yes, thank you," Mycroft's voice was synthetically sweet, as he set down his desk phone and reached instead for his mobile. There were precisely fourteen new messages from Sherlock, which he did not have time to read.

Is John with you?
MH

Yes.
SH

They'll be bringing him back into the room in a moment (you're welcome.)
He has a terrible choice to make. I would recommend silence, Sherlock.
MH

The nurse put her hand on John's shoulder, and motioned toward the door. Mary's shrill moans had subsided, and her breathing was enforced by an army of machines. Sherlock was not permitted entry.

"No!" John's voice was thickened by tears, "Haven't you tried –?"

"We've tried everything, Dr Watson."

"But she… I know that she—"

Mycroft stared at the phones on his desk. Absently, he adjusted the camera which faced the hospital. Sherlock was no longer in its range.

Tell me what's happening.
SH

Wait.
MH

Sherlock's entire body covered the door, and he focused his hearing.

"We can do the Caesarean section, under emergency conditions. We may be able to save your wife and the baby, if we start right away."

John did not hear the words. He watched the nurse's lips, while his heart circled his wife's. The baby…

The baby.
SH

Sherlock did not know what possessed him to type the words. He did not send them to anyone. He just read them and tried to find a place for them in his stores of memory.

John did not do this. He moved toward Mary, and his hand found hers, beneath tubes and wires and blankets and fluids. Weakly, their fingers intertwined. He looked for reassurance in her eyes, but they were shut.

"Mary," he said, and her eyes struggled to open obediently, "No, you don't need to look at me, it's alright. Only… I love you, Mary, and you'll be okay, I promise. We'll all be… fine."

"Hamish," she began, indicating the forthcoming baby. John leaned closer.

"We need to start the operation immediately, Dr Watson," the nurse proceeded, grasping his shoulder once more. He was dragged through the door, and thrown at Sherlock.

"Mary!" he called, vainly. The gentle lights were replaced with harsh, surgical ones, refracted from metal tools. The slot in the door was forced shut.

He and Sherlock stared at each other. Neither spoke. Consolation was a lie, and empathy doubly so.

Mycroft saw them on his screen, as they paced in the corridor, beginning in opposite directions so they would not catch each other's gaze by accident.

The nurse reappeared, and Mycroft zoomed-in on her. He watched her face.

"I'm sorry, Dr Watson," she said, "We did everything we could."


Author's Note: This is a new style for me to work with, so your thoughts are greatly appreciated. Reviews = lovely Sherlock art in your inbox :)
Anyway, the following chapters will be in first-person POV. You'll just have to figure out who's talking to you. Should be fun/easy.

I promise it isn't all this angsty. I swear.