Title: Written in the Stars

Author: Rewrittengirl (or now that I think about it, you can call me Leffie. XD)

Fandom: Sherlock (TV series)

Wordcount: 1,487 words.

Rating: T for this chapter, but rating will go up later on.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

Pairing(s): Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

Genre: Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

Warning(s): Expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, drugs, alcohol, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

Contains: In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

Notes: Okay, so I lied when I said there wouldn't be another update! XD I got some time in between packing to write another chapter. Gonna be quick before I loose internet connection and say that I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I don't know when another one will be out, but hopefully soon! ^^

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

Summary: What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.


John couldn't breathe.

It wasn't that there was no oxygen in the room, there was plenty. By all accounts he should be able to catch his breath. Everything was perfectly normal.

Well, everything apart from the child's decapitated head.

"Sherlock…" he rasped, clutching at his throat where no air would enter, at his chest where his heart beat faster.

"Yes, John?" the detective said, not really looking at him, but bending over the three corpses with a grin (a grin! The bastard!) plastered over his face. He ignored John when he didn't reply, instead examining the father's eyelids and saying something to Lestrade that John didn't quite catch. He couldn't hear much of anything really, and he backed against the wall, the beginnings of a tremor racking his body.

Sherlock must have said something to annoy Lestrade, for the detective inspector stormed out, shaking his head and saying to John something like "how do you deal with him every day?" Or was it how does he deal with himself?

"Sh-sherlock…" he whispered, tears starting to well as he stared at the permanently screaming baby.

"YES John, what is it?" Holmes said in annoyance. "I'm rather busy at the moment. Unless you've anything of vital importance to add, I must concentrate."

"Sherlock."

The man finally looked up at the doctor, and a look of confusion spread across his face. "John, what's the matter?"

John gulped. He hadn't blinked since the moment they entered the room of the abandoned house. The walls were peeling, the cracks in the floor littered with bugs and mold. But nothing was as shocking as the three bodies, ritualistically beheaded with their legs straight out in front of them, and their hands over their hearts as if they were already in their coffins.

And the baby… The screaming, crying baby, not even a year old.

He still couldn't breathe, and slid down the wall, beginning to rock back and forth. He couldn't stop staring at the baby. "Sherlock," he rasped, barely audible. "I can't… I can't breathe!"

He felt Sherlock bound toward him, kneeling down in front of him to obstruct his view. "John, can you hear me?" he said calmly.

The hysterically silent doctor nodded numbly, his arms scrapping his sides as he held his stomach, ready to hurl. He watched Sherlock take off his glove and touch his cheek where a tear had fallen, wiping it away. "John, what's wrong?"

The man looked up into his eyes.

Eyes… They were… so beautiful… Like a dream.

"You really don't know…?" he shuddered. "You bastard," he sobbed.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "What? What do you mean? What did I do?"

John ground his teeth hard, looking away. "You didn't tell me… that one of the murders was a baby."

He knew Sherlock was immediately confused for the moment, as of course the thought hadn't occurred to him at all. Then realization must have hit him, for he made a sound of comfort. "John… I… I…"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"You're what?"

"I said I was sorry."

Sorry? That was completely unlike Sherlock. He never apologized and meant it. Every action he took was made with precise calculations, and he never regretted any of them. Now this?

"I didn't know, I mean, I didn't realize, I didn't think…"

"What? That I wouldn't picture my daughter's face the moment I walked into this room? No Sherlock, you'd never think about that."

A sudden embrace. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

He couldn't help but wrap his own arms around his friend. "John, I'm so sorry…" What had come over the man? He never felt empathy for the deceased, let alone the living. It was an anomaly.

He'd never been this close to Sherlock before. He buried his face in his hair, inhaling a strong scent of mint and tobacco. He knew Sherlock didn't smoke anymore, but he'd often walk into bars just to be around smokers, so his addiction wouldn't flare and he'd light up.

The smell was more than comforting, combined with the man's embrace and his soft words in his ear. John was still shaking, as he couldn't get the child's face out of his mind, couldn't help but imagine the agony of the screams as the sick bastard chopped her head off. "Did she die first, Sherlock? Did her parents have to watch their child suffer?" he whispered in his ear.

Sherlock didn't speak for a long moment. "Do you want the truth?"

"Yes."

After a pause, he leaned back, wiping another tear from John's cheek absently. John had never seen Sherlock so… alive? Of course he was alive all the time, but not in the truly living sense. He never felt human enough emotions to really live. And now many of them were playing across his face. How was that possible?

"They were all killed at the same time. They all died together. There were three murderers, maybe more."

John sighed in relief. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. He gulped, wiping his face in embarrassment and rubbing his temple. "I'm sorry, I'm making a fool of myself—"

"Don't be," Sherlock said. "I may not understand, but I know what you must be thinking, and I understand why it upsets… people like you, people with emotions like that."

"What emotions?"

Sherlock paused, looking down and licking his lips. "Love."

John didn't say anymore on the subject, as it was made clear that Holmes didn't wish it to discuss it further. "I'm usually so professional about these things…" he laughed dryly.

Sherlock nodded curtly. He squeezed John's arm in comfort and stood up, grasping John's hand and pulling him up. "Are you well enough to look over the bodies? You… You don't have to look at the child."

John nodded. "Yes, I'm fine… You don't have to shelter me, Sherlock, really."

"I'm worried about you," he said suddenly. He chose his next words carefully, as if he didn't really mean to say any of them. He was surprised at himself. "I'm just worried, that's all, about your sanity."

John bit his lip, moving away from the man and towards the father, who was the first body from the door. "They weren't killed here were they?" he said.

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment, and John turned around to see the man unmoving, his eyes searching for some sort of explanation for his behavior. "No… No, they weren't."

"Well that's obvious, you dolt."

Anderson was standing in the doorway, and Sherlock immediately put on his customary sarcastic smirk. "Hello Anderson." He slammed the door. "Goodbye Anderson." He brushed off his hands with a triumphant grin

John chuckled, picking up the father's hand and turning it over in his gloved palm. There was etched a number 2 on his palm, clearly cut post-mortem.

"They must have been moved here long after they died, and arranged like this to make a statement. Their limbs show forced contortions, so it must have been many hours after the murder," Sherlock explained, taking his magnifying glass and examining the mother's hair follicles.

"Right, right, because the limbs become stiff quickly."

"Exactly. The woman's hair has droplets of wax coating it, perhaps they were killed at a candle making factory? Or rather, the more likely possibility is that they were killed as some sort of sacrifice, thus denoting their posture and aligned bodies."

"Since candles are usually used in rituals, it could have dripped on her, correct?"

"Correct."

"Sherlock, look at these markings on their hands," John said, moving the hands out so that the detective could see them. He stretched the man's hands first, then moved the child's in the middle (he caught his breath while doing so, but seemed fine), and then the mother's.

"They're numbers," Sherlock said, standing up and peering down at them. "2 and 7… or is it 27 on the male?"

"I think it's 27, because you see the child has a plus sign etched onto her chest, and then the other set of numbers on the woman's hand."

"Yes, 18, I see it. 27 plus 18 equals 45…"

John could almost see Sherlock's mind processing the number, scanning his subconscious for all the possibilities. "God, it's nearly impossible to narrow it down!"

"Sherlock."

"Not now John, I'm thinking!"

"Sherlock."

"What, John?"

"Could 45 mean a 45 caliber gun?"

"Yes, that's one of the possibilities. Why?"

John was staring at the mirror across the way, above the mantel.

"Because there's someone pointing one at me outside the window."

He was right on all accounts.