Title: Baby Makes Three

Chapter: 3/6

Rating: T

Warnings: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death

Pairings: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)

Spoilers: For all seasons of Sherlock

Summary: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in posting. Life has been busy. The next two parts focus more on the underlying mystery. I love mysteries but have trouble coming even close to the genius of Doyle, Christie, or Sayers. Therefore, apologies if the mystery seems too flimsy. I attempted to make it a twist on one of Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes' stories. See if you recognize which one. ;)

All mistakes are mine.

Sherlock finished his composition with relative ease. He was quite pleased with the way he had managed to polish it and collapsed in his great chair. His tea was appalling now; and Mrs. Hudson had yet to return with any consumables. He closed his eyes as he considered shouting for her. But he found himself growing restless again. He checked the time. It was nearly two in the afternoon, and John had yet to text again. He took up his phone, considering it for a few moments before scrolling through his messages. He pulled up John's group message and hastily texted a reply.

How is Mary? – S

He fired off the text and laid his phone on the armrest. As the minutes passed, he recognized that a reply might be long withstanding. John Watson had more important things on his mind than replying to a haphazard inquiry. Nevertheless, Sherlock waited, his hand hovering above his phone to grab it the moment it dinged.

Ten minutes later it sounded, and he caught it immediately.

Well. She's doing really well. She's dilated 10 cm, and she's started to push. It shouldn't be long now.

Oddly, he felt relieved that John had texted back at all. He also appreciated the fact that John had been clinical in his reply, seeing as the detective had spent the past several months reading everything he could about pregnancy and parturition. John's text gave him a better idea of how things were progressing.

He hastily texted a response.

Excellent. - S

His finger paused over the send icon. He wondered if they remembered…his request. Mary would have, seeing as she had not been disconcerted by his unorthodox appeal. However, as she was rather preoccupied at the moment, it might have slipped her mind. John had been rather put-off by the very idea and could not be as relied upon to see the request fulfilled. Nevertheless, Sherlock knew the man was his only option. He tactfully chose his words and added them.

Did you remember to…? -S

He intentionally left the inquiry vague as to avoid the direct force of John's wrath. He sent the text. A few minutes later, the reply came.

Yes.

He could almost hear the exasperation in John's voice.

Thank you. –S

That satisfied him. He was thankful all the preparations the necessary reagents for preservation had been made. Experiments in the following weeks were going to prove to be rather fascinating.

Mary's labour seemed to be progressing rather rapidly now; he had finished his composition. Thus, Sherlock decided to go to the hospital. He hurried off to his room to dress and returned to find a text from Lestrade.

Down at the Pub. Got something for you.

Sherlock contemplated whether or not the detective inspector meant murder or some ridiculous attempt at a birthday celebration. Deciding murder was more likely since "the Pub" had been a place of rendezvous in the past when Lestrade had wanted to consult on a case without the NSY's* knowledge, he donned his Belstaff and wrapped his favorite scarf around his neck. He then packed up his violin and newly transcribed music, concealing them snugly in his voluminous coat.

Leaving the flat without delay appeared to be more of a challenge than he originally considered. Mrs. Hudson had heard him stomping about in his bedroom apparently. She managed to corner him to learn his intentions before he had even properly descended the stairs, and she only released him when he swore on the head of his firstborn (like that was ever going to happen) to offer John and Mary her congratulations when he looked in on them and the baby. Then he escaped the confines of Baker Street and began his walk to meet Lestrade.

He stepped into the frightfully warm pub which felt particularly close after the biting London winter. He resisted the urge to rub his face, particularly his nose as it tingled with blood rushing back into his features. He made his way to the bar. Lestrade was leaning against it, nursing a half-full pint, his eyes glued to the telly where some sport event was playing out in real-time. It was that brutal sport that John sometimes enjoyed watching that involved far too much senseless running and kicking of a ball than Sherlock cared**. He waited patiently though, but it did not take long for Lestrade to notice his arrival. "Sherlock," he grinned. "Happy Birthday."

Sherlock had stopped suppressing his groans; he made this one especially dramatic. That only served to make Lestrade chortle. "You sure I can't buy you one," Lestrade indicated as he raised his mug. "It is your birthday."

"No, thank you," Sherlock responded curtly. "You know I'll never touch the stuff again…after…"

Lestrade chuckled before taking a swig of his glass. Sherlock had no desire to relive the events of John's disaster stag-do.

"You said you had something for me," he swiftly reminded the detective inspector. This little side-stop was interfering with his plans. It had better be worth the sacrifice.

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed as he retrieved some evidence bags from within his jacket. "Marianne Dasher. Ever heard of her?"

The name jogged Sherlock's memory. He had snatched it out of Mrs. Hudson's hands earlier this morning. "She's the stage performer who has suddenly disappeared," he confirmed.

"Run off with her lover?" he suggested.

Lestrade shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"No lover. Or at least she hasn't run off with him if there was." Lestrade moved swiftly to rip open the evidence bag and fed Sherlock a picture of the woman's apartment. "Apartment was locked. There's nothing to suggest she was forcibly kidnapped or left in a hurry."

"But she didn't disappear from her home," Sherlock noted as he raked the photograph with a clinical eye.

"No," Lestrade agreed as he passed aside another photograph. "She disappeared from last night's performance directly before the last scene. She was there, and then she wasn't. One of her cast mates saw her retreat to her room after her last scene and assumed she remained there until people came looking for her to do the curtain call. She'd just vanished."

"Let me guess. The cast members suspect that an opera phantom dragged her down to his lair," Sherlock mocked, but the reference was clearly lost to the man. Sherlock groaned at his allusion, realizing Mrs. Hudson and her show tunes had addled his brain. He feared her prattling might one day cause it to rot out of his skull. The consulting detective waved for the stalled detective inspector to continue. Lestrade cleared his throat. "It's evident that she came back to her apartment last night. One of her neighbors remembers hearing the key in the lock after midnight, a considerable time after the performance would have ended. But they don't recall hearing it again – if she left."

"And no lover?"

Lestrade leaned casually against the bar as he watched Sherlock categorizing evidence, data being gathered and filtered from the pictures. "She was described as very committed to her work," the older man continued. "Very private though. Preferred to spend her evenings off at home or practicing her vocals. We've checked her contacts, close relatives, computer, papers – there is nothing to suggest a romantic attachment of any kind."

"No," Sherlock agreed as he thumbed through the photographs of her flat. All evidence pointed to the life of a single woman. However, the evidence seemed too conclusive. He pursed his lips in thought.

"What's this?" he muttered as he held up a photograph of a prescription. Several similar snapshots had proceeded it. Lestrade shuffled his weight uneasily between his feet. "Do you know what they're for?"

Sherlock glanced at the drug names. "Prescription narcotics. Extra-strength painkillers. The name has been ripped from the prescriptions," he noted.

"We've contacted the physician who apparently wrote them – a Dr. Armstrong – but he is very strict about patient confidentiality and claims he's never met Marianne Dasher. We're working on a warrant, but…"

"You're afraid she might be lying wasted in an alley somewhere?" Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Or worse – dead." Lestrade swallowed evenly. "The thought had crossed my mind," he admitted.

Sherlock took an even breath before responding, his voice low and tight. "We both know I preferred recreational substances."

"I know," Lestrade blurted out all too quickly. He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder before sliding away his glass and leaning a bit closer. Sherlock refused to meet the man's gaze and continued to sift through the photos. "But an addict is an addict. You'd know the signs, yes?"

"Indubitably." Lestrade passed over the second evidence bag. "Describe her," Sherlock demanded promptly as he arranged the prescriptions in front of him and then ripped open the new bag to retrieve the tube of lipstick.

"I said she was driven. But fun loving. The entire cast loved her. Not a bad word against her. Despite being a bit of a recluse, she enjoyed the company of those she worked with. They've only been working together a few months, but she's never demonstrated any moodiness, depression, agitation."

"So no withdrawl symptoms then."

"None that we can see," Lestrade noted. "I had my people specifically ask for that after we uncovered those prescriptions in her apartment."

Sherlock turned the lipstick over in his hand before opening it. He screwed the applicator to its maximum extension and noted the frequency of its use. He had seen her bathroom cabinets, indicating that she had not been a regular user of her own personal cosmetics. That was understandable since her face was plastered with it every time she walked out on stage. So then who or what did she put on this lipstick for? He sniffed it and then examined the applicator more closely. No signs abuse of the gloss; it was almost as perfect as when the manufacture had cast it. It had only been worn down by friction against the lips. It had always been applied with a steady hand – no nicks, cuts, or an uneven tip to suggest otherwise. He could have Lestrade analyze the flakes of skin still adhering to the applicator, but he was certain his conclusions her correct. He slid Lestrade a photograph of Dasher's toothbrush – worn but still shaped. "She's no addict," he pronounced. "There would be clear signs of anxiety on her toiletry items if she was."

"A dealer, then?"

"Going to a doctor to get her meds? That's not how they do it in London – or at least that was not how they did it. Too risky these days. Most dealers get it through others – health employees that steal. If she dealt these drugs, why does she have prescriptions for them? It doesn't add up." Sherlock considered Lestrade for a moment. "Did you find anything else in her flat?"

"That's it." Lestrade ran a hand through his gray hair and blew out forcibly through his cheeks. "We went through that flat with a fine toothed-comb. It would have met your standards, Sherlock. But there was nothing. Before you ask, we also checked her private room at the Hall. None of those medicines show up among her things."

Sherlock considered the photographs before him, running his finger tips across various ones as he considered them. "She's careful," he suddenly breathed. "Too careful. She's hiding something, something she is afraid of anyone discovering. It's a facade. But it's not about the drugs – at least not for herself anyway."

"Is she trying to protect someone who is using these drugs – whether for profit or pleasure?" Lestrade thought aloud, picking up his glass. Sherlock tipped his head. "Possibly," he decided. "But there's this," – he held up one of the prescriptions for inspection – "this isn't any type of addictive substance." He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a way on it. "No, this is for treating epilepsy and bipolar."

"Could she be passing drugs to someone – backhanded dealing or something? Or is she holding them?" Sherlock did not respond as he considered the evidence once again, turning it over in his mind. He felt there was something missing though; a clue that had been heedlessly passed over but was extremely important. He was missing it. Quickly, he shifted through the photographs again. "Could she be ill?" Lestrade considered aloud after a long pull of his beer.

"No. There would be signs," Sherlock asserted.

"Right." Lestrade sighed as he pulled out his phone. "Donovan is supposed to text me with more details. Though I think it's safe to say," – he momentarily held up his phone as if searching for a signal – "this investigation is at a standstill."

Sherlock could not agree more. He closed his eyes briefly, deciding it was time to step back for a moment and try another method of approach. Unfortunately, he felt a gaze upon him; he ignored it for as long as possible but finally it became to grating to overcome.

He opened his eyes; Lestrade watched him silently. The vacant expression, furrow of the forehead, narrowing of the brows – Lestrade had grown nostalgic. Sherlock had a very good idea what images the good detective inspector might be remembering.

"Please refrain from recalling the circumstances under which he first met, detective inspector. That was quite some time ago." Sherlock sighed. "I am not the same man."

"Thank God. You're not," Lestrade agreed, looking remarkably pleased with this verbal acknowledgement of the obvious.

"I'm not," Sherlock echoed, perplexed by the knowing curve of the man's lips into a smile and shining eyes. It was almost as if the man was "proud" to hear Sherlock utter those words in this context. Preposterous! It was time to leave. Sherlock turned away and started to gather up Scotland Yard's evidence that littered the bar.

"Heard anything from John?" The inquiry was a welcome one.

"Mary's doing well. Her cervix is dilated 10 cm," Sherlock answered almost reflexively. Lestrade stared with wide eyes, and Sherlock considered his words, realising they were a bit "not good". He corrected himself immediately. "John says she's started to push, which means it won't be long now."

Lestrade relaxed a bit as the air cleared. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good," he agreed. "But I asked about John. How's John?"

"What do you mean, 'how's John'?"

"I mean, did you ask how he was fairing?"

"No. I fail to see the relevance."

"He's about to become a father, Sherlock," Lestrade observed. "I doubt he's not a bit nervous." Sherlock considered this fact, a new revelation in his mind. He had never pegged John as one to simply get "nervous" in the manner which Lestrade implied; and if he did, it had not shown in his body language the days prior. "You should send him a bit of encouragement," Lestrade offered. "You know – be a good mate."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and leaned against the bar as he contemplated a text to John. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Lestrade drinking his beer and cheering on his sporting event while Sherlock struggled with societal norms. Finally, the detective decided to send an almost literal translation of what Lestrade suggested and fired off the text.

You're doing really well, John. Keep it up. –S

It was ridiculous. He sent it anyway.

His phone pinged only moments later.

Sherlock!? Are you…?

"Now he thinks I'm high," Sherlock snapped with a glare at Lestrade, "or pissed."

Lestrade's phone immediately buzzed. It was a text from John. "I'll deal with it." Sherlock slumped against the bar and wished the day would come to an end. Sentiment. Babies. Impending changes. Birthdays. Perhaps it was not too late for someone to get properly murdered and make everything right.

His phone sounded again, and Sherlock checked it with some reluctance.

Thanks, Sherlock. Sorry for the confusion. The stress of having a baby is getting to me.

I thought Mary was the one giving birth. –S

Ta.

Sherlock ducked his head to hide his smirk, not giving Lestrade the satisfaction of appearing pleased at being rewarded for being "a good mate". He slipped the phone back into his breast pocket and changed his mind. Perhaps this day was turning out alright.

A few minutes later Lestrade received another text. "Donovan," he sighed wearily as he scrolled through the message, "The procedures are in place. We can question Armstrong now. That's my cue." Lestrade finished the last of his mug and took back his evidence, carefully storing it away in his coat. "Where are you headed?" Lestrade asked as he paid his tab.

"The hospital. I've been instructed to offer congratulations when I have word the baby has arrived."

"Then take mine as well. Congrats to the new parents," Lestrade grinned as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, and the younger man grew stiff at the unexpected touch. "Happy Birthday, Sherlock." Sherlock hummed in assent as he started to make his way to the door.

"Oh, and, Sherlock?" Sherlock elegantly turned heel at Lestrade's last implore.

"You realize that you and baby Watson will share the same birthday most likely."

The man was grinning far too widely. Sherlock bit back an aggravated sigh and smiled wearily. "So I've been told."

Then the consulting detective ducked out of the pub back into the cold.

*NSY = New Scotland Yard

** Lestrade is watching rugby. In the original ACD canon, John Watson played rugby while he was at university.