ITLE: It Takes a Village

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Two/ Father

RATING: T (language, content)

A/N: Someone asked if this is going to be a bunch of random oneshots, or actually have a plot. Well, BOTH. There will be a storyline that will run sort of underneath the chapters. But memories, etc, are going to be splattered in quite a bit. It's the current story, and the story of the little Watson's childhood, growing up years, etc. (And some pre-birth fun too with the parents and Sherlock - from picking out baby names to decorating the nursery, all that jazz. Just imagine Sherlock as he helped plan the wedding, x10) You get about a one sentence clue to the present time plot line in this chapter. Read carefully. Basically, the daughter is in danger. Surprise, surprise. We're going to go through flashbacks of the daughter, and some other times the daughter was in danger, or other things. For example, John is afraid for his daughter. Here we look back at another time John was afraid. Get it? The flashbacks won't be in chronological order. They will mostly be centered around one character per flashback. Again, this chapter focuses on John, so the following flashbacks are going to focus on John. (And might I say he is a pretty BAMFJohn. Not too much. We'll save that for later! But you do get to see Captain!John and Doctor!John.)

Please read and review, many thanks.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

Chapter Two: Father

John Hamish Watson never imagined he would be a lot of things.

After a childhood of being told time and again he would never be worthy of even shining his father's army boots, he had earned a pair of his own.

After being brutally bullied for his stunted height and unimposing stature, he would go on to incapacitate men twice his size with a flick of his wrist.

His first college professor told him that he had far too big of a heart to seek a career in the medical field, and far too small of a brain. Yet that apparent big hearted, little brained man saved more men and women and children in his days as a doctor than he could count.

The idea of marriage had always appealed to him, but he never envisioned himself in the role. He had watched his parents tear each other apart, and then watched Sherlock Holmes tear his dating life down. So when Mary Morstan quite literally crashed into his life - well, technically, he had bumped into her and knocker her over, which, by the way, she never let him forget - he hadn't expected it to last. He had waited silently for the other shoe to drop. For one of his horrid habits to scare the woman away. For when she finally had enough of his grieving over the friend she never met. Yet she never did. And when John said "I do" he thought that that was the greatest moment of his entire existence. He had proved a lot of other people wrong in his life, and this time he had done so to himself.

He would prove himself wrong again, when 8 months later John Hamish Watson became something else entirely. Something he had never, not once, even dreamed of becoming.

A father.

Father.

Such an odd thing really. How a single word, two little syllables, one title, could change a man so completely. The word "father" had always left a poor taste in his mouth. It had left him internally cringing, waiting for the next blow from his long since deceased dad's hands. Father had meant fear, anger, abuse, abandonment and loathing.

And yet, in one solitary moment, that word started singing quite a new song. It had a different ring to it now.

Father.

Him, John Watson, a father. Of course, at first, it terrified him. It brought about all those awful adjectives to the forefront of his mind. But in that same second, he realized something. Something other people might take lifetimes and several children of their own to do. He knew in that moment that he was not his own father. He was going to be the father of his own child. His and Mary's child.

And suddenly the word had a whole new meaning.

Hope, joy, love, anticipation, and yes, still a little twinge of fear. Okay, so maybe a whole bucket of fear. But it was a different kind of fear. Not terror for himself. But trepidation for his new role. Anxiety over the safety of his child. A good, exciting kind of fear.

Being afraid was not something Captain John Watson readily admitted to. He didn't talk about his childhood trauma. He didn't let on to Mary that he was secretly internally shaking.

There were times, though, when true terror tore through the father's stony and brave armor.

Times like now.

It's amazing how life or death situations can spark such sentiment and nostalgia.

John Watson was quite used to having guns thrust into his face by now. Of course he didn't desire to die. He most certainly feared death and dying, even after coming so close so many times. It would be worrisome if he didn't. But between life with Sherlock Holmes and spending years getting shot at in Afghanistan, the man had learned to tell the difference between "imminent death" scenarios, and cocky criminals.

So when one of the murderers that the detective and blogger had been tracking for nearly two weeks pulled a pistol and aimed it only centimeters from John's forehead, the former soldier didn't even blink.

"Turn around, Doctor Watson," the smug voice ordered.

"Or let me guess," John sighed sarcastically, "you'll shoot me?"

"This isn't a joke, doctor," the killer warned.

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" John retorted.

"I mean it, doc," the gunman grunted. "Turn around and walk away."

"I have a better idea," John stepped forward. "You, give me the gun, and my friend behind you won't put a bullet in the back of your skull."

"You're bluffing."

"Oh, no, I'd say he's quite correct."

The criminal stiffened at the low voice behind him.

John smirked at Sherlock as the detective drew closer to the man pointing the gun at his face. Sherlock was carrying John's own military firearm. The soldier had lost it in the shuffle preceding the current stand off.

He harbored no sympathy for the now shaking man. The killer had murdered twelve people in two weeks with this same gun that he had pointed at John. Two of his victims had been children. No, John wouldn't have batted an eye if Sherlock pulled the trigger. He never would wish anyone dead, but he didn't necessarily have to care if they died.

The criminal began turning, keeping his weapon trained on John as he tried to face Sherlock.

"If you shoot me, I'll shoot your doctor friend here."

"Did you hear that, doctor?" Sherlock was addressing John, but his voice was taunting the killer.

"Oh, yes." John smiled thinly.

"What the hell are you smiling -"

The man didn't get to finish that sentence. With two swift movements from John, the criminal was disarmed and down on the ground, unconscious before he even hit the floor.

"I think you should change the name on your blog, doctor," Sherlock sniffed. "None of the criminal class seem to remember the part where you're a soldier."

"They do seem to forget that bit," John chuckled.

"Bad for them," Sherlock commented, uncaring.

"Good for us," John finished.

They were still laughing together when the police sirens sounded and Lestrade and his team funneled into the building.

"Ah! Finally!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Better late than never, is it, with you lot."

Sherlock and Greg exchanged words while John checked the unconscious criminal's vitals. He was just standing back up from the body when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Turning away from the crowd, John retrieved his mobile and read the message.

And then read it again.

And then was pretty positive he stopped breathing.

"Sherlock."

John stared down at his mobile, his wide eyes never leaving the screen as he attempted in vain to get the younger man's attention.

Sherlock was locked in some debate with, from the sounds of her condescending voice, Sally Donovan. He could hear the baritone belittling the woman, but couldn't make out the words. Not because he couldn't hear them. Sherlock was only standing across the room from John. No, John couldn't hear anyone's words. Not Sally when she made some rude retort. Not Greg when he asked John if he was okay. Just sound. Distant, vague, muffled and blurred noises. As if he was underwater.

Somewhere in those depths of panic, John knew there was only one person there that could save him from drowning. Could pull him to the surface.

If he could only get the insufferable twat's attention.

"Sherlock," he repeated, raising his volume and giving the name an enunciated edge.

The detective finally whirled around, abandoning Donovan midsentence. He crossed the room in a fluid motion of steps and whirling coat fabric.

He reached his friend in under two seconds, immediately cataloguing the man's appearance and firing off deductions. John's arm was stiff, holding his mobile at chest level, fingers curling around the device with enough force to turn his knuckles white. Much more pressure and the military man would break the phone.

John's eyes were rounded and glinting with a fear Sherlock very rarely saw his assistant possess. His gaze never once flickered from the screen of the nearly crushed mobile. There was also something else playing behind his irises. A certain shimmer that only ever shown when he was thinking about Mary.

So, Mary. Something with Mary. Something that had John terrified. Sherlock mentally checked his calendar. It couldn't be that. Not yet. But all the signs were there.

"When?" Sherlock addressed his friend calmly.

"She went into labor five minutes ago. Mrs. Hudson called an ambulance."

"Eight minutes," Sherlock nodded. "It's not far. We can make it before they leave."

Sherlock turned to leave but skidded to a stop when he noticed John not following him. In fact, John wasn't moving at all. Except, of course, his chest. It heaved at an abnormal speed for the normally cool and controlled doctor.

"John?"

"31 weeks," John swallowed. "Sherlock, Sherlock, she's only 31 weeks. She's early. She's premature. She's –"

"She is your daughter and she needs her father," Sherlock stated sternly. "Just as Mary needs you."

John finally snapped his sight up to meet with Sherlock's serious stare. That was all it took. The horror of the situation. The anxiety of the reality of finally, actually being a father. The dread of not being there. None of it mattered. And Sherlock knew that that was all he would need to say. John would always be there for others, especially those he cared about. He put the people he loved ahead of himself, no matter what. Sometimes it was a characterization of his friend that made Sherlock furious, like when the assistant risked his skin to save the detective. But right then, he could use it to his advantage. John would worry later. And the man would never forgive himself if he fell into a panic attack and wasn't there for his wife and daughter.

With a short and sharp nod, John pocketed his mobile and sprinted out the door alongside his friend.

Having Sherlock Holmes as your guide, one could navigate the city far faster than most on four wheels. They didn't waste time trying to hail a cab. Sherlock took off down an alleyway, and John didn't pause to question the route.

They would never beat the ambulance, but, factoring in the at least three minutes it would take to securely and safely move Mary, they just might make it. Sherlock had considered going straight to the hospital, but John would want to be with his wife every step of the way if he could. Mary was also quite stubborn. She would likely throw a bit of a fit and demand that they wait for her husband. The detective internally smiled at the image. Her struggling and protests would give them at least another two minutes. If he was lucky, Mrs. Hudson would try to shower the paramedics with stories and questions. Another sixty seconds.

But as Sherlock rounded the final corner to Baker Street, he realized that all his calculations were void. He had been so focused on the route, he hadn't heard the sirens. Hadn't smelled the smoke.

Hadn't seen the fire.