A/N: This story is a speculative AU take on the Sherlock series. Dates and events presented in this are based around those based on the original canon, referring to "The Adventure of the Final Problem" by Arthur Conan Doyle. This also explains the appearance of John's wife Mary Morstan Watson, a character who has yet to appear in Sherlock.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

May 4th, 2011. A date I should never want to think back to, but I know I must. The day I lost my closest friend and companion to the Napoleon of Crime himself. It's been about one year since that black day. The visions haunt my mind still, ever so vividly now that it's May again. The trek through the Continent, the eventual stopping in Switzerland, the climb to those dreadful falls (I can't bear to even think of their name without fear of my eyes watering), the false call from the hotel, my friend sending me along, knowing in the back of my mind that there was something in his eyes that didn't seem normal for him, realising that the call was a ruse, every heart-pounding, muscle-aching bound of my legs as I ran in vain to save him. His scarf, neatly folded where he last stood. The new application on his phone, the notepad with his last letter to me. The visions get blurry after that. Probably because I was so close to sobbing. My anguished screams of my friend's name, trying to cling to some small distant sliver of hope, some tiny hope that he was still alive... but I know he's not. He's gone. He's dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He and that damned Jim Moriarty, crushed on the rocks and rushes of Reichenbach Falls.

The sound of distant sirens pull me from my aching reverie.

These memories are painful. My chest hurts from them. I can feel my face heating up, my eyes water. I can't stand it. I wish he were here. Wish he could be here so that I could actually be happy when I'm supposed to be. And I really ought to be. For right now, I'm in a cab, speeding through London, with my wife on the verge of delivering our first child. We've decided to name the boy after him. We probably would have anyway, even if he was still alive.

The sirens are getting a bit louder now, and I reluctantly allow the cabbie to pull over in hopes that it's someone I know. It is. The familiar subtly bullish face and silver hair comes into view.

"DI Lestrade. What're you speeding for- John? John Watson? What the devil are you- OH! Carry on, man! I'll escort you!" He's a good man, Lestrade. He's been such a good friend to both me and Mary after Sherlock's death. I wish I could remember his first name. I'll ask him when we get to the hospital.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

I guess I ought to be glad I was on patrol in the first place when I pulled ol' John over. If it'd been Donovan, she'd probably do the same as me. Dunno if he'd be as relieved as he was to see me, though. If it had been anyone else, he'd probably be worried. Though, he'd have no need to. Even though Sherlock wasn't an official member of the force, most of us were honored that he'd help when he did. I sure as hell was glad he'd work with me, at least.

I see the hospital come into view and we head to the emergency area. We stop beneath the awning and I help get Mrs. Morstan-Watson out the cab and John and I escort her in.

"My wife's about to have her child! We need to get to a delivery room!" John barks at the staff, clearly in military-mode, albeit a slightly panicked version. A couple of the nurses arrive and bring her a wheelchair for her to sit in while she's taken to the room. John's holding her hand, stroking it, telling her that "It's gonna be okay. You can do this, Mary, just breathe," and that sort of thing. I'm followin' close behind, flashing my badge when necessary and sayin' "I'm a friend of the family" when that doesn't work so I can stay with 'em.

Eventually, we get to the delivery room, and I'm stuck sitting in the waiting area, while she and John go in. I guess John's allowed in with her since he's her spouse and the father. Bonus points that he's a doctor, too. Trying to catch my breath - I'm not exactly a young man anymore, if my hair's any indication - I spot a vending machine across the room. Fishing my wallet from my trouser pocket, I purchase a couple bottles of water, one for me and one for John. Doubtless he'll need it later.

I glance over into the room and see John right by Mary's side as she's leaning forward with the fifth most pained expression I've seen on a woman's face before. (I ain't saying what the first through fourth are.)

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"Breathe, Mary! Push, Mary! You've got this, Mary! Just a little further!" I shout so much encouragement to her, but it's not all for her. It's for my own reassurance. I've never had a child before. Neither has she. This is hard on both of us. The yelling is all I have between my hopes and my fears. The only defense I have to stop those fears from clouding over my hopes. I keep shouting. "Come on, Mary! He's almost here! You're almost done! Just keep going! Almost there!" God, it sounds like I'm coaching a marathoner. That's what this is, a mental marathon. More like a decathalon, really. Fear, denial, grief, acceptance, drifting, joy, worry, assurance, anxiety and...

Crying.

My little boy is crying.

He's alive. I look to Mary, who's rightfully exhausted. I'm beaming at her. "You did it," I say. She returns the sentiment with a weak smile. The nurse measures the boy and cleans him up. Seven pounds, four ounces. Nineteen inches. A healthy, average baby boy. We're eccstatic, as much as we can show, anyway. The nurse then hands the boy to Mary. I don't know if I've seen her happier. She's glowing with pride, even moreso than at our wedding over a year ago. The nurse tells me she'll be back with the birth certificate sheet for me to fill in. I decide to take this opportunity to allow for some mother-son bonding and for me to remember Lestrade's first name.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

John comes out of the delivery room tired and grinning from ear to ear. Guess the kid's okay. I stand up to shake his hand in congratulations.

"Thank you, Lestrade," he says. Doesn't he know he can call me by my first name by now? "Though, I do have one question, and this may seem a little odd. In fact, I'm a little embarassed I have to ask you." Do I want to know where this is going? "What's your first name again?" Oh. That's all?

"It's Greg. Thought I'd told you?"

"Right! Greg. Sorry, I guess I'm just so used to calling you Lestrade that I forgot. I mean, that's what he'd call you, too, even though you'd known each other far longer than we had." Still can't say his name? God, John, it's been a year. Guess Sherlock's passing hit him harder than I thought.

"No worries. Why'd you ask, though?"

"You'll see," he tells me, thanks me for the water, and goes back into the delivery room. "I'll let you know when guests are allowed in. Oh, and if you could give my sister a ring, that'd be great," he called, tossing me his mobile. I manage to catch it in one hand. Who knew I'd still have the old reflexes for it? "It's 'Harry' in my contacts."

"Got it, John." He nods a thanks and ducks into the doorway.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"How is he?" I ask of our son. Mary's got a serene smile on her face. I'd wager it'll be forever planted across her face.

"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I'd say he looks more like you than me."

"Well, I'm willing to bet that he's got your eyes, once he opens them." She nods. I sure hope he does. Such brilliant glass-blue eyes would be a nice contrast to the rather bland appearance of my own features.

"What was that chat with the Detective-Inspector for?" I'm about to answer when the nurse returns with the paper and a pen. I smile.

"You're about to find out." I see that his date and time of birth, May 5th, 2012, 11:42 P.M., length and weight are already accounted for. All that's needed are his name and parent's signatures. I open the pen.

Sherlock Gregory Watson I write. Mary shows her approval and signs the paper. I sign it myself soon after, and hand it back to the nurse for filing.

Sherlock Gregory Watson. It has a nice ring to it. Bearing the names of two of my greatest friends these past couple years. And, it gives him the option of a normal name once he reaches such an age, Greg. I muse to myself what Sherlock's reaction would have been if he'd known we'd named our son for him. I wonder now what Greg's will be when I explain why I asked for his name?

He'll probably be speechless.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

I'm speechless. John named his kid for me. Well, the middle name, anyway. Still, I can't seem to utter a word for a good minute or so.

"You okay, Greg?"

"Yeah, yeah... Wow... Thank you, John. I'm honored," I finally manage to say. I think I'm getting a little emotional over this. John puts his hand on my shoulder, obviously seeing it, too.

"Think nothing of it. You've been a great friend to myself and Mary, this past year especially. I'm just glad it wasn't Anderson who escorted us!" We share a laugh at this. I'm glad he still has a bit of humor to him after all that's happened to him. I hope this happiness lasts for him.

If anyone in this world is deserving of true life-long happiness, it's Dr. John H. Watson.