Note: There's a quick, silly little reference to one of ACD's stories in here, albeit through a modernized filter. If you spot it, you get... erm, well, bragging rights, anyway. :)


The specialist's waiting room was the second-poshest place John had ever been in, and even then Buckingham Palace's lead was very narrow.

The office was high in a skyscraper, and an enormous, pristine window of golden-tinted glass presented the London skyline in a way that made it almost seem like something out of an antique photograph. The chairs all had the smoothest leather upholstery John had ever felt. There was one larger central table and three smaller end tables which were all made from finely varnished dark red cherry wood. On top of the table were several magazines with topics ranging from the obvious (six different pregnancy and parenting magazines) to the weirdly obscure (one magazine about the appreciation of artisan cuckoo clocks), and the only thing they had in common was that they appeared to cater to a higher-end clientele.

What really threw John for a loop, though, were the little things. He was used to crowded, noisy waiting rooms filled with impatient people who got into arguments, sneezed on everything, bled on whatever they didn't sneeze on, and did it all beneath the migraine-inducing synthetic glare of stark fluorescent lighting. The lighting here was soft and soothing, coming from elegant lamps placed on the end tables and a very modern-looking chandelier fixture attached to the ceiling.

Then there was the fact that the only actual people waiting were John and Mycroft. John knew that only the highest level of influence afforded the luxury of allowing only the very next patient to wait in such a room. And then he squinted, noticing the name on the degrees (Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard Medical) displayed in fine frames on the wall near the check-in desk. His eyes grew wide and his heart skipped a beat or two.

John sniffed. "Mycroft?" he asked, his tone pinched as he continued to stare at the degrees.

"Mm."

"What… what on earth am I doing here?"

"Awaiting an appointment which will determine the status of your health and the development of my niece or nephew," Mycroft answered simply.

"Not literally, Mycroft!" John hissed. "We're in the office of Doctor Judith Wilson!"

"Yes. I realize you are angling for an 'And?', so there it is."

"And she's one of the leaders in the field of the Omega reproductive system, having helped pioneer its modern study! We'd probably still be in the dark-ages of Omegas as second-class citizens if she hadn't done so much for the Omega rights movements of the 60's and 70's! For fuck's sake, she's delivered every member of the Royal Family born since 1982!"

"Language," Mycroft chastised mildly. John groaned, but Mycroft continued speaking before he could launch into another tirade. "I did say the appointment was with a top specialist. I'm not given to hyperbole."

John didn't really believe that for a second, but he had the impression that pursuing the matter any further would get him nowhere. He sighed. "Fine."

"You're not even going to ask me how I accomplished this?"

"No, no I am not. I learned a long time ago to stop questioning the How of Holmeses."

"You're thinking that would be a wonderful title for a blog entry if you had the occasion to use it, aren't you."

"No!" John denied, a bit too hastily. "Shut up."

After a moment of tetchy silence, John finally glanced over to Mycroft and noticed his reading material. He frowned in confusion and asked, "Are you… are you reading a baby magazine? Newspapers are much more your style, aren't they?"

Mycroft didn't look up as he replied, "You kept me waiting in the car so long, I finished my supply. Even The Sun and The Daily Mail."

John rolled his eyes and muttered, "How was I supposed to know you were out there for twenty minutes before you texted?"

"In any case," Mycroft said imperiously, clearly changing the subject. "According to this article, it's currently especially 'in vogue', as it were, to name one's child after the location in which it was conceived. Quite a few little Brooklyns and Londons running around as a result and, of course, the ever-popular Porsches and Mercedes."

John frowned at him. "Mycroft, are you- are you actually, honestly asking what I think you're asking?"

"I don't recall the presence of either an interrogative word or an upwards-pitched intonation towards the end of my sentence."

John scoffed. "Right," he grumbled. A moment later he added, "Abandoned Warehouse Holmes just rolls off the tongue. Could be a future PM with a name like that."

"Very respectable, in a Puritanical way," Mycroft stated, still looking down at the magazine. "You could call it Abby for short."

Before John could recover from the shock of Mycroft Holmes, of all people, making a joke, the door leading to the corridor of check-up rooms opened. A male nurse held the door open for an Alpha woman and her pregnant female Omega partner. John vaguely recognized the Alpha from television, though he couldn't quite place where, as he'd scrupulously avoided the media for the last several months in case unpleasant memories came up. She seemed to have the physical bearing and styling of a serious professional newscaster or journalist, though. Her partner was lovely and a month or two further along in her pregnancy than John. She had a fine bone structure and moved with a highly-practiced and trained grace despite the cumbersome aspects of pregnancy. A dancer?

A bittersweet pang hit John's heart when he realized he was deducing, even if it was just the kind of thing Sherlock would have dismissed as blindingly obvious.

The nurse chatted with the pair amiably as he arranged future appointments and bid them a good day. He flipped a page on the clipboard he held and scanned it. His eyes flicked over to John and he smiled. "John Watson?"

John blinked, surprised Mycroft made the appointment under his real name, common though it was. What if word got out to the media? What if they saw this as a new juicy twist in the Sherlock Holmes story? What if they came banging on his door and asking countless questions and – he forced himself to stop thinking about it. He stood, somewhat awkwardly, and walked to the door. "Ah, yes. That's me." He looked over at Mycroft, who was still sitting. "Staying here?"

"I have something I need to do. I'll be in for the sonogram, however."

The nurse scribbled something down and nodded. "Right. Let's get the little things out of the way before the doctor sees you. Please follow me."

John ran through the basics with the nurse: his height and weight were measured, his blood pressure checked, the date of his last heat provided, and a small urine sample given to determine hormone levels. It reminded John of routines at the surgery, and he relaxed slightly at the familiarity. It didn't take long, and the nurse escorted him to a check-up room. "The doctor will be with you in just a moment, sir. Thank you for your patience."

And so John sat on the cool examination table, his only company the detailed anatomical diagrams of female and male pregnant Omegas. His hand found its way to his stomach as he mentally pleaded for good news. He certainly hadn't had much of that in the past half-year. Subconsciously, his other hand pulled Sherlock's scarf closer to his nose.

Fortunately, he wasn't alone with his nerves for long. The door handle turned, and John looked over to see Doctor Judith Wilson enter. She was a handsome Omega woman in her mid-sixties with a face that exuded warmth and confidence beneath a thick mop of curled, grey-tinged hair that had clearly once fully been a bright, fiery red.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Watson," she said cheerfully. "How are you today?"

"Uh, a little gobsmacked, not going to lie. This visit was kind of unexpected and, well, you were sort of my idol growing up. Really championing the rights of Omegas, teaching Alphas it's not okay to treat us as property, breaking out and thriving in a field previously denied us and making all kinds of medical breakthroughs… so… yeah, thanks for… for all that."

Dr. Wilson laughed. "Oh, you great flatterer," she said happily. "Well, I'll have you know that I am quite the fan of your work, as well. What a blog!"

John immediately paled. "Er, about that – "

Dr. Wilson held up a hand, silencing him. "One doesn't reach my level of expertise without appreciating the importance of discretion, more so than even the standard measure of patient-doctor confidentiality," she said seriously. "I only hire assistants with whom I would trust my life." She paused for a moment and gave John a concerned, almost sad look. "I take it the baby is Sherlock's, then?"

John tried to swallow the lump that had risen in his throat to little success. He nodded and whispered, "Yeah."

Dr. Wilson sighed. She raised a hand to cup her chin in thought. Finally, she asked, "Did he ever tell you that he once did me a great service?"

John blinked. "No. He did?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "One of my sons, Jabez, is unfortunately rather gullible. He got that from his father, bless his trusting soul. A few years ago, he came to Sherlock asking him to investigate why his part-time employer suddenly vanished. He said that Sherlock had dismissed him with exceptional rudeness until he discovered his relation to me. Long story short, poor Jabie had been duped by the infamous hacking group League of Gingers, who hoped associating with him would give them hints on how to hack into the private files of my patients. A lot of tabloids would pay good money for that information."

"And Sherlock stopped them right before they cracked into your system," John said, smiling wistfully.

"Seconds before," Dr. Wilson said. She mirrored John's expression. "Needless to say, I believe in Sherlock Holmes and his abilities."

"Thank you," John whispered.

Dr. Wilson's fond smile dulled somewhat. "Unfortunately, this does mean that you have a very high-risk pregnancy, Dr. Watson. It's a real relic of an evolutionary tactic. Though we may despise it today, it was once the best way to conserve energy and ensure both the survival of the Alpha-less Omega as well as increase the odds for any future bonding. Rest assured that I will do my best for you, but I just wouldn't advise believing whole-heartedly in a miracle."

"Please, call me John. And… I know," John said. He smiled grimly. "I asked for a miracle once. I know how it goes."

"Best to take it one day at a time, and remember that there's no shame in hope," Dr. Wilson said. Her expression brightened slightly. She clapped her hands together and continued, "Now, if you could just lie back on the table and lift your jumper, I can see how things are going."

John obliged, and soon Dr. Wilson was pressing gentle, practiced hands around the swell of his belly. A look of concentration settled on her face as she worked. "Have you felt movement yet?"

"Yes, though infrequently and not too strong." His breath hitched when he felt a series of taps from within. The feeling of it never ceased to amaze him, and every time it happened he felt relieved at the knowledge that the baby was still alive.

"Ah, speak of the devil. Someone doesn't like being poked. Strength feels about right for this stage." Dr. Wilson removed her hand from John's middle and pulled a measuring tape from a nearby cabinet. After measuring, she said, "A little small for 22 weeks, but it's your first and you're not exactly a towering behemoth anyway." She laughed when John wrinkled his nose in distaste at the joke.

"Up you get," she said, helping John sit up. He pulled his jumper back in place and adjusted the scarf as Dr. Wilson wrote down notes. "Now, if you would follow me, we'll head to the ultrasound room and we can look at and listen to that baby."

When they entered the room, John was surprised to see Mycroft already there, standing mildly next to the equipment as if it were the most natural place in the world for him to appear and shame on you for thinking otherwise. So that's what 'be in for the sonogram' meant.

"I see a nurse let you in, Mr. Holmes. Or perhaps Uncle Mycroft is a better name for this occasion," Dr. Wilson said conversationally. She grinned and added, "How are my wrinkly little plums doing?"

"The princes are considerably less wrinkled and red-faced than last you saw them in person, Dr. Wilson."

John was tempted to ask how the two knew each other, but then he remembered that Mycroft knew everyone, whether they reciprocated that knowledge or not. He let the curiosity go. Soon, he was once again lying down with his stomach exposed, only this time with the added discomfort of having cold gel smeared over him.

The moment the screen turned on, however, all thoughts of discomfort were completely gone. John was mesmerized by the moving images on the screen, even if it didn't particularly look like a baby at first. Dr. Wilson moved the ultrasound head around and suddenly John saw.

"Oh," he breathed.

From this angle, it actually looked like a person. A person with an enormous head and skinny little arms, but a person regardless. John could see the contours of the nose and lips, and he chuckled in awe as he watched a little hand get closer to the mouth. "Is it doing what I think it's doing?"

"That is definitely thumb-sucking, yes," Dr. Wilson said as she saved the frame for print-out.

John knew he should be listening closer to Dr. Wilson as she pointed out and labeled various body parts, but he was far too busy being overwhelmed by what he was seeing and – when Dr. Wilson set the doppler to pick up the heartbeat – hearing. His instincts were surging, and certain thoughts raced wildly through his mind: It's alive. It's there and it's alive. It's there and it's alive and it's part of Sherlock. Oh God, may it live forever.

He did his best to keep the tears from falling, but there was no stopping their formation.

What Dr. Wilson said next managed to cut through John's daze. "-ink I can get a pretty clear view of the genitalia. You'll have to wait until after the birth to find out its full gender, especially since it'll still be quite a few weeks yet before it releases the hormones that will shape it into an Alpha, Beta, or Omega. But would you like to know if it's male or female?"

John blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. "Oh, um, I'm not sure. I don't have a preference; I'm just… I'm just glad to have it."

"If Sherlock were with us, he would insist on deducing such things," Mycroft added.

John laughed, even though the visual of Sherlock prodding at his belly and rambling deductions broke his heart with its impossibility. "You know, don't tell me. It'll be a tribute to him."

"Very well," Dr. Wilson said with a smile. "I'll just tell you that there are no irregularities there either."

A few more minutes of scanning and screen-capturing later, Dr. Wilson shut off the equipment and wiped the gel from John's abdomen. "Well, John, everything looks very good so far. Like we discussed earlier, though, do not take that as an invitation to lose vigilance. For example, if you haven't quit work yet, then you need to today. I'll also be scheduling frequent appointments with you, and now that I know your full situation, I may make them house calls."

"I'll have to think about it," John said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Some of Sherlock's scent still lingers in the flat, and it's… it's pretty much been my lifeline. I don't know which will help it keep longer: me coming here, or you visiting."

"I'll discuss it with some scent researchers I know. They're good people, really know what they're talking about," Dr. Wilson replied. She helped John up from the examination table and the two settled on the appointment schedule as they made their way back to the waiting room. Mycroft, who was busy checking his phone, trailed behind them.

Upon check out, John was presented with several print-outs and a DVD of the scan. He stared at the pictures the whole drive back to Baker Street, as if trying to memorize every detail in them. When he showed them to Mrs. Hudson, she seized him in a surprisingly powerful hug, crying and going on about the baby. Fortunately even Mrs. Hudson's most powerful, vice-grip of a hug wasn't enough for John to worry about the baby's safety, which was good, given that it took his landlady a solid five minutes to come to her senses.

They hung the pictures on the refrigerator with baby bootie-shaped magnets Mrs. Hudson had picked up in a store.


Later on, when Mycroft was being driven away from Baker Street, he keyed in the password on his phone and looked through the sonogram photos he'd managed to download through the tap he'd secured in the ultrasound machine. He selected one that was a nice balance between a reasonable representation of a forming human being and abstract blobs and went to his text archive.

From there, he selected "Sherlock – Mission Number".

There was a distinct trend in the content of the texts there. His eyes glanced over a few as he scrolled to the bottom.

Tell me how John is. – SH

Send picture of John. Shoddy, blurry CCTV footage will do. – SH

Took down a small cell of Moriarty's followers. I deserve a reward. One of John's worn jumpers preferable. – SH

Send me a lock of John's hair or I shall buy every ounce of cocaine in Columbia. I am here, and I will do it. – SH

John would be in heat now. If you come within a five mile radius of him, you will pray for death, and I will make sure that said demise could be beaten by a glacier if a race were involved. – SH

I need him. Something. Anything. – SH

Mycroft's responses had all been denials, usually with the explanation that such things would just further distract Sherlock from his mission, but there were a few flat 'no's in there. Mycroft had bad days like anyone else.

This time, however, he sent the picture. Then he waited, wondering if Sherlock had deleted the most common usage of ultrasounds in favor of something more interesting, like determining if certain poisons had literally melted away sections of the liver.

Thirty seconds later, he got a response: Explain. – SH

You did say a shoddy, blurry picture would do. Granted, most of the picture is of something your doctor cares about very much, but he's technically there as well.
Mycroft

A full minute went by this time. Sherlock was probably analyzing the picture in tremendous detail if it was taking a whole minute. When the next text came, Mycroft was eager to see how accurate his deletion theory was.

Contents hardly discernible. You are really letting the surveillance equipment of our fair privacy-throttling nation rot. That said, it's not a completely horrible gesture on your part. – SH

Mycroft smirked, pocketed his phone, and leaned back into his seat. Deleted it was. He'd expected that much, but the Sherlock equivalent of a gushing thank-you had been a nice bonus.