Hello Lovelies!

So since you have all given me wonderful responses, I've decided to take this story in a sort of new direction. But I don't want to give too much away. I have a new plan that I'm very pleased with and I hope you all will be too. This chapter is a bit rough because of that, but it will get better I promise.

That being said…Hamish will be born in this chapter. Before you start with the "Whoa, Sherlock isn't back yet! How could you? Nooooo!" just read. You'll see what I did. *Wink wink*I will say this though; you can't write Sherlock stories without Sherlock.

Thanks as always for the follows, favorites, and comments.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much Love and Many thanks

Chapter 9: You Are Your Daddy's Son

Time has gone by at a snails pace.

Everything is bleak and a tad painful.

It's because he's no longer here; it's because I don't have Sherlock.

The funeral was small and quiet. John and I stayed by each other's sides the entire time. We're all that we've got now and there is no one in the world I'd rather have by my side, helping me get through this. Besides us, in attendance was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, who was kind enough to be there despite the Yard's recent accusations toward Sherlock and, unfortunately, Mycroft.

"I don't want him here," I hissed to John when I saw the elder Holmes brother walk toward the gravesite to join our small congregation.

"He's family," John replied, hooking my hand onto his arm, "I know it's hard for you, but just for one day, remember that you two are both Holmes'."

"It's hard to think of him as family when's he's part of the reason we're here." I whispered back.

"My deepest condolences, Elfie," Mycroft said when he approached John and I, "I do hope that, in light of this tragedy…"

"Don't," I had said, "Please, don't." And those were the only words I spoke to my brother-in-law that day.

The press wanted in on the whole funeral service, but thankfully Mycroft was able to keep them at bay. That was probably his attempt at apologizing for what he did to his own flesh and blood. It doesn't take the sting away though. I still can't believe that he was the one who told Moriarty everything about Sherlock. I'll admit that I hold him partially responsible for my husband's death, but John is right; Mycroft is family. One day, I may be able to forgive him. But I don't see it in the upcoming future.

That article was published, along with the press' 'flashy' new headline: "Suicide of Fake Genius: Fraudulent Detective Takes His Own Life."

Suicide.

John told me what happened at St. Bart's: the rooftop, Sherlock's phone call, and the whole lot. None of it really makes sense to me, though. Why would Sherlock jump? He seemed fine when I last saw him. Sure, a little off, but not even close to what one would consider suicidal. I'm convinced there was some other forces at play, something that only Sherlock knew about it.

Was it Moriarty? Probably.

Could the out come have been avoided? I pray to God that it could have been.

John has graciously decided to stay at 221b with me. "I promised Sherlock that I would look after you and the baby," he told me, "and that's what I'm going to do. It's the least I could do for my best friend." This whole ordeal has been so hard on him. Sherlock was John's best friend, the man who saved him from a dull life and made him a human being again after the war. In away, John's grieving is much the same as mine; we both lost our other half the day Sherlock died. Neither of us will be the same, nor find any person or anything that will fill that gap.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

We went through Sherlock's things and decided what we should keep or donate to the lab, you know, things like that. I personally wanted to keep the real important things that reminded me of him: his laptop (I never dare to use it), his violin (always on the bedside table to remind me of his playing), and his blue dressing gown (I wear it every chance I get). People say that getting rid of, or selling the affects of a deceased love one is part of the moving on process. Maybe I don't want to move on. To me, moving on means forgetting.

I will never forget Sherlock.

221b has sort of transformed. Instead of science equipment and miscellaneous papers strewn about, one could actually see the hardwood floor of the living room. The kitchen no longer looks like a laboratory, but rather like any old kitchen. The bedroom I use to share with my husband is still the same, with the addition of a blue crib set up in the corner. Sherlock wanted the baby to share a room with us and so that's how it will be. It will be nice not to sleep in a lonely room; sure, the baby's cries may keep me up all night but at least I won't be alone.

The pregnancy has gone over well and Hamish is growing healthily, ready to be born at any minute. Yes, the baby is in fact a boy; I'm not surprised. John was a bit taken back by how calm I was when I got the result:

"You seem…indifferent." He had said.

"No, I'm happy." I replied, trying (but of course failing) to keep calm, "It's just…I already knew."

"How?"

"Sherlock."

John has been my only doctor during the pregnancy thus he performed the ultrasound. I don't trust anyone else with my baby's life and I feel like if I went to any other doctor, news about Hamish would get out to the press and that is the last thing I want to deal with right now. Besides, John is my doctor and I can't imagine anyone else helping me with this…even though it's not what exactly he's trained in. The process has been hard and every check up was a cry fest for me. Sherlock wasn't there to see his child for the first time. He wasn't there to hear Hamish's heartbeat. He wasn't there to be at my side when I was sick or when I needed comfort.

He simply wasn't there.

It was in the afternoon of the 16th of January when it happened; when Hamish Arthur Holmes decided to enter the world. John was in the kitchen, making tea of course, and I was lying on the couch, trying to keep myself from going insane from boredom. I had felt a small pop then a feeling of dampness near my thighs. I raised myself up on my elbows and stared down at my lap. That's when the pain started: right away, no waiting. My son was ready to be born. "JOHN!" I had exclaimed and, seconds later, we were out of the flat and where we are now: In a taxi, on the way to the hospital.

I'm going to be a mom.

I bite my nails nervously during the cab ride from Baker Street and focus on my breathing. I'm anxious and a tad bit discouraged. John will be by my side, of course, but that isn't enough. The most important person in this whole situation will be missing. All I can think about is Sherlock: What would he say right now? What sort of comment would he make about all of this? God, I wish he were here.

From time to time, since his death, I can hear Sherlock's little side commentary as if he really were here to participate in conversations or just add his two senses on any matter. Sometimes I can even see him, standing beside me dressed in his signature black suit, covered up by that coat and having that blue scarf tightly wrapped about his neck. It feels like he's really there: that I can reach out and take his hand into my own. I know he's not real, but sometimes I give in to my hallucinations as if he was my conscious, guiding me through tough decisions. Sometimes, I even mentally have conversations with him. Perhaps I have truly gone mad, but I don't care. This is the closest I'll ever get to be with him again.

"Nervous," I hear my 'imaginary' Sherlock ask. He's sitting beside me, hand resting on my thigh, staring out the window like he use too when he was deep in thought…when he was still here.

"Yes." I reply in my mind.

"I don't see why you would be. The child will be fine and so will you; don't you trust John?"

"Of course I do, but I'm afraid, Sherlock. I'm all alone in this."

"John will be there."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"Don't be such a smartass."

"Why not? You love it when I'm a smartass."

"Sherlock?"

"Mhm?"

"Why can't you really be here?"

"Here we are then," The cabbie says, "St. Bartholomew's Hospital." John quickly pays the driver and gets me out of the car. Once outside, I take in a deep breath. I can see the headlines now: 'Internet Fraud's Widow Gives Birth in Same Hospital Where Husband Died.' It's so melodramatic but sort of peaceful. This was the last place I saw Sherlock alive so in a way, he'll be here in spirit.

God, what am I saying? I just need to get this child out of me.

"John," I moan, suddenly feeling the pain sharpen, "I…I can't do this."

"Yes you can, Fee, we're almost there." John coos, rubbing my back, "We'll get you all situated and it's going to be fine."

"John, this is…annoying." I say between my teeth, clutching my abdomen.

"Huh, you know, that's the exact thing I would imagine your husband saying right now," John replies, ushering me inside. I give him a weary smile; he's right. Sherlock would want no part of this pain. He would call it dull and a waste of time. Oh God, I wish he were here.

We check in at the front desk under the name Stegerson. Holmes would attract too much attention. A nurse is waiting with a wheel chair and wheels me off to a private room. This special treatment is most likely Mycroft trying to apologize yet again. John had told him which hospital I would be going to as well as which name I'd be checked in under. I didn't want him to know, but he is family; Hamish will be his nephew, despite my disliking. He should be involved.

Once I'm situated in the most uncomfortable bed imaginable, dressed in a blue hospital gown, John comes in and takes a seat at my side: "How's the pain?" he asks.

"Stupid," I groan, "but tolerable for now. When do I get an epidural?"

"Fee, you just went into labor," John says with a chuckle, "Epidural won't be for awhile. I'll have the doctor check how dilated you are when they get in."

"Well, aren't you going to be my doctor?" I ask, because a tad worried, "I mean, you have been the only doctor I've been going to, so shouldn't you be the doctor now?"

"Fee, do really want me delivering this baby? I was already bending my medical skills being your OBGYN, let alone…"

"But, John, I don't want anyone else. I don't trust anyone else."
"Fee…"

"No, John. Please?"

"Elfie, it's out of my hands. I'm sorry."

I roll my eyes in annoyance and run my hands through my hair. The pain has stopped for now, but I know that only means that when it comes back it will be even harder and worse. This whole thing will be painful…and frightening. Doubt begins to seep into my mind; Oh God, I'm giving birth. I'm not ready to be a single parent. I hardly know what I'm doing with my life now; How am I suppose to be there for this child? How am I supposed to be mother and father to this baby boy?

"John," I say, looking up at the ceiling, "I'm scared."

"Don't be, you'll be fine." My best friend assures me, taking my hand into his, "You're pregnancy was as perfect as they come. Your son and you are going to be okay."

"John…what if I can't do this?" I ask him, feeling my eyes well up with tears, "I…I can't raise a baby by myself. I…John, I don't know what to do."

"Fee, listen to me, you're going to be alright." He says with determination, "You are the strongest woman I know and…I know for a fact Sherlock is watching over you right now, making sure you stay strong. He would want you too be. He is...was my best friend and I know that he loved you more than anything. He always was your guardian angel, Elfie, you know that: you need to stay strong for him, okay."

"John, I want Sherlock." I softly cry, "he's…he's missing this."

"I know, Fee," he coos, placing a friendly kiss on my forehead, "I know." I slowly reach up and wrap my arms around John's neck. He holds me in return and we remain like this for countless minutes. I have never felt so afraid in my entire life; I use to be brave, but that was when I had Sherlock at my side. He was my rock, my world and my entire life; without him, I don't know what to do. I just miss him so much.

"I'm going to go find your doctor, okay?" John whispers when we finally part, "Maybe I can see what I can do about the delivery."

"Thank you," I say, leaning back against the pillows. About ten minutes later, the doctor comes in to assess the situation. He asks a few dull questions: how I'm feeling? On a scale of 1 to 10 how bad is the pain? Simple things like that. When he's done with his assessment, he tells me that delivery is close and that within a few hours; I should be ready to push. 'Jesus Christ,' I tell myself, 'This kid isn't wasting anytime.'

The doctor and John step out to talk while a nurse (finally) gives me an epidural for the pain. Exhaustion starts to hit me and just for this moment, this bed feels heavenly. I don't know how long I slept but when I open my eyes, the windows of my room are dark. Yawning, I prop myself up on my elbows and quickly realize that the labor pain has returned with greater intensity. Really Hamish? You are not going to make this easy are you?

I squeeze my eyes tight and take in a deep breath: "Shit." I moan between clenched teeth, "John!" I reach out a hand out to him, but I get no response. "John?"

"Doctor Watson has stepped out for the moment," an unfamiliar voice replies. I open my eyes and turn my head to see a man, dressed in the normal hospital garb, closing the blinds. His broad back is too me and I can see strands of white blonde hair sticking out from under his teal cap. He reminds me of my Sherlock, but then again every man I see reminds me of my Sherlock. Besides, this man's voice is far too chipper and looks about half Sherlock's age. I'm just being dramatic; he's nothing like my Sherlock. Nobody ever will be.

"Um, I'm sorry, but…are you my doctor?" I ask, taking in slow breaths.

"No, no, just one of the nurses," he replies, "Doctor Watson will be back soon."

"So, he will be delivering? Thank god." I sigh with some relief. Mycroft probably pulled some strings; I guess I should thank him when this is over.

"Yes. You have a lot of trust in your husband, ma'am." The nurse replies, as he slowly turns around, revealing his young, pale face, "Most women don't ask for their own personal doctor."

"I'm not most women," I breathe out, slowly rubbing my swollen belly, "and John Watson's not my husband."
"Oh, my apologizes." The nurse says adjusting his large, black-framed eyeglasses "Is he the baby's father?"

"No, just my friend." I reply, "The baby's father, my husband, he…He passed away." There's a sudden twinge in my heart; those words will never be easy to say.

"Oh. I am sorry, ma'am." He says with a hint of sadness and sheepishly looking down at his clipboard, "I shouldn't have brought it up. I was only trying to make conversation; sometimes that helps pass the time and takes your mind off of the pain."
"It's fine. You were only doing your job." I wince as the pain intensifies a bit; "Maybe you were right about the talking," I say between my teethe, "How much longer now? Can I get another epidural?"

"I'll alert the doctor of your request," the nurse says with a small chuckle. "Anxious, ma'am?"

"You could say that." I reply. I then notice something rather odd about this nurse: "Um, I'm sorry, but…you do know that smoking isn't really the best habit to have for a practicing nurse, right?"

The male nurse gives me a look of pure surprise: "How…how did you know that I smoked?" he asks nervously.

"Your fingers are slightly tinted from tobacco and your uniform smells of smoke." I reply. Sherlock would be proud of me.

He furrows his brow then jots something down on his clipboard; "That's, um, very clever of you." He says, nervously as he walks over to check the monitors.

"Don't worry, I won't tell," I assure him, "I just…thought you'd like to know that I knew. Not that I mind, I just...sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, it's fine." He says, "If it helps to keep you comfortable, ma'am, then by all means ramble." He gives me a comforting smile and I smile right back.

"What's your name?" I ask, watching him take down notes.

"Basil." He replies, "Basil Altamont."

"Huh," I say, a bit confused, "Interesting name."

"No more interesting than yours, Mrs. Elfie Stegerson." He quips back, looking at my medical file. I raise my eyebrow at him and he quickly turns an embarrassed pink: "No, um, I'm sorry that came out as rather rude. My apologizes, ma'am."

"No, no, it's fine." I say, "I don't pretend for a second my name is normal."

Basil gives me a sheepish smile and returns to his notes: "So, boy or a girl?"
"Boy. His name's Hamish."

"Ah, keeping the different names in the family, interesting. Was that your husband's name?"
"No, no, but he picked it. He'll be named after…" Suddenly, I wince in pain and grab tightly to my sheets: "God, I'm sorry, but is it suppose to hurt this much?"

"It is childbirth, ma'am." Basil replies, rather matter of factly.
"Can you stop calling me that? It makes me feel old. You can call me Elfie."

"Sorry, m…Elfie."

I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. I can feel this getting harder and harder by the moment: "How old are you?" I ask, trying to keep my mind off the pain that is only getting worse.

"Twenty seven." He says proudly.

"And how many births have you helped with?"

"This will be my first."

"Brilliant." I reply with a hint of sarcasm. Realizing how rude that may of come out, I open my eyes and look to the male nurse. He has turned away, discouraged. "I'm…I'm sorry." I say, "You shouldn't take my coldness personal. I'm just that kind of a person; I didn't use to be, but…well, things happened."

"I see," he says, looking down at his feet, "but I understand the doubt."

"No, no, I don't doubt you at all," I go on, "I just…OH GOD!" I suddenly scream out in pain and clutch onto my stomach. It's happening. It's really happening. I'm about to become a mother.

"Mrs. Stegerson?" Basil asks, coming to my side, "Are…are you having contractions?"

"WHAT DO YOU THINK?" I yell, "GO GET JOHN!" I must have frightened the poor boy because he flew out of the room faster then the speed of light. Everything seems to blur together; the room is spinning and my head is pounding. Sweat is already starting to develop on my brow and tears well up in my eyes. The pain is indescribable. If anything it feels like every pain that could be inflicted on the human body is turned up a thousand notches. I thought the epidural was supposed to help with this?

"Oh God, Sherlock." I cry, "Where the hell are you?"

I'm vaguely aware of Basil returning to the room with a few other medical professionals. All of them are now dressed in the proper delivery uniforms and I feel like I'm in the middle of one of those medical dramas on television. They begin to speak some medical jargon to one another as another wave of contractions hits me. God, this is unbearable.

"Fee? Can you hear me?" John says, coming to my side. He gently grabs my arm and I look to him with tear filled eyes.

"John, I want Sherlock." I whisper, "I…I can't do this alone."

"Yes, you can." John assures me, kissing my forehead, "I need you to listen me, alright? Just listen to my voice; we are going to do together and I'm going to get you and Hamish out of here safely. I promise."

I take in a sharp breath and quickly nod. John then gives some directions to a couple of the nurses, using his captain's voice. They quickly disperse to their appropriate positions; I'd be more impressed with Doctor Watson if I wasn't in so much pain. I scrunch up my face and quickly grab the hand of the nurse closest to my bedside. Turns out its Basil. That's convenient.
"Don't you fret," he says, taking hold of my hand and setting his free one on my back, "this…this will be over soon."

"Easy for you to say," I breathe out, "you're not the one giving birth." Basil chuckles and gently rubs my back. For a first timer, he is extremely calm. Lucky him.

"Baby's crowning." John says; his voice remaining amazingly calm and collected, "Okay, Elfie, when I say so I'm going to need you to push."

"John, I'm scared!"
"I know, but I need you to trust me. Ready? Okay…push!"

I give it my all and squeeze poor Basil's hand for dear life. The pain only intensifies. Dear Lord, this is ridiculous.

"Excellent, Fee!" John coaches, "Alright…again!"

I push again with all of my weighing strength. I close my eyes and try to imagine something, anything really, that is more pleasant then this. A particular image enters my mind, and I'm not at all surprised at what it is: My Sherlock, kneeling by my side, holding my hand and gently rubbing my back like he would. He's here, in this room, just like when he was in the taxi earlier.

"You can do this, Elfie Marie," he whispers, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles, "Just keep going."

"You're doing beautifully, Elfie." John calls out, "Again. Push!"

I let out a loud cry and use all of my remaining strength. I start to see red and my body starts to shake slightly. This is too much. I can't take it much longer.

"I can't do this, honey. I can't."

"Yes, you can." Sherlock coos, "You are my darling, darling girl. You can do anything; I've always believed that. Just one more, my darling: One more and our son will be here. Just push."

"I can se him Fee! Last one: Push!"

"Push!"

Mustering strength from the deepest core of my body, I give out one final push. Suddenly, a cry fills the room. It's my son's cry. My heart fills with indescribably joy and happiness. I have a son. I'm a mother. I've done it.

"Well done, Mrs. Holmes." That wonderful baritone voice whispers to me, "I told you that you could do it. When have I ever been wrong?"

I open my eyes in hopes to see my husband at my side, but am slightly disappointed to only see young Basil there instead. I give him a weary smile and he smiles right back. Through the thick frame of his glasses, I can see that his eyes are red with held back tears. There's a different look about him, a familiar look.

"Th-thank you," I whisper. He nods to me then slowly stands to help John.

"You are very welcome, Mrs. Holmes." He replies, giving my hand one final squeeze before walking off.

Through blurry eyes, I turn my head to watch as John lifts up the most beautiful child I have ever seen and hands it over to a waiting nurse. Feeling a humongous sense of relief, I fall back against the pillows and let out a huge sigh.

"Elfie, you were wonderful," John says, rushing to my side, "How you feeling?"
"I saw him, John." I whisper, looking around a bit.

"Wait until you hold him," he says, taking both my hands into his, "One of the nurses it cleaning him now and…"

"No, John, I saw him." I clarify, "I saw Sherlock."

John's mouth turns to a small frown as he runs a hand through my sweaty hair: "I figured that's whom you were talking too," he whispers.

I bite my lip and look up at the ceiling; I thought that conversation was in my head. I certainly heard Sherlock's voice but I didn't think I was actually replying out loud. I know he wasn't really here.

"He…He would be so proud of you." John goes on, trying his best to hide his tears, "So very proud of you."

"You think?" I ask

"Of course." John replies, giving me a friendly kiss on my forehead.

"Doctor Watson." One of the nurses says from the foot of the bed. John turns his head and rises to take the small, white bundle from them. A small smile grows across my face as John returns to my side, gently cradling the bundle.

"Would you like to meet your son?" he asks with a smile. I chuckle and hold my weary arms out to receive him. John carefully sets the bundle in my hold and I bring it close to my chest. There, popping his little head out from the white cocoon and cooing happily is my Hamish. He is beyond beautiful. Already, there is a thin layer of dark hair on his little head. His face is perfectly round and his tiny, pink lips are actually rather dainty with his perfect cupid's bow.

"Hello, sweetheart." I whisper, gently stroking his cheek, "I'm…so very glad to finally meet you." A pudgy little hand worms its way out of the blankets and grips onto my fingers. Very slowly, Hamish opens his little eyes and stares right back at me; they sparkle beautiful, sea foam green.

They're his father's eyes.

"Oh, look at you, Hamish," I say; unable to hold back my small tears, "You…you look just like your daddy."

Hamish blinks and makes a small noise, almost like a giggle. I place a soft kiss on his forehead. For this moment, I am happy: the happiest I have been in a long time. This child, this little boy is my world now. Sherlock's final gift to me, I suppose. That gap in my heart, where my husband use to reside is full once again and it is all because of this boy.

Hamish Arthur Holmes: Son of the late, genius-consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He is my perfect son.

Hours later, after I unwillingly had to let go of Hamish and sleep, I wake up to the sight of John Watson looking into the small crib that's been setup beside my bed. "Hey," I say quietly as to not wake Hamish.

John turns his head and gives me a small smile: "Hey," he replies, "how you feeling?"

"Are you going keep asking me that until we get home?" I tease, "It's getting rather annoying."

"I'm only looking out for you," John replies with a chuckle, "You did just give birth to a 9lbs. baby boy."

I chuckle slightly and run a hand through my greasy hair: "Did you call Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, "She practically demanded that I tell her as soon as he was born."

"Yeah, I did." John says, taking a seat at the foot of my bed, "I even called your mum while you were sleeping; you owe me for that, by the way."

"She didn't try to flirt with you again, did she?"

"That's the thing: I don't really know." We both let out a laugh, which causes Hamish to stir and wake up. I quickly sit up, and John thankfully scoops my son up and passes him over to me.

"You're already getting a hang for this mothering thing," John says, returning to his spot.

"Maybe I was always meant to be a mom," I reply, stroking Hamish's soft cheek. He doesn't cry, just makes small cooing noises and stares up at me with those eyes: his father's eyes. The longer I look at him, the more I realize he looks just like Sherlock. I only wish they could meet.

"Fee?" John says, sounding nervous, "I…I have to tell you."

"Yes?" I ask, still not looking up from my son's face.

"I called Mycroft."

"Oh."

"I had too; Hamish is his nephew and all, not to mention, the only memory he-or any of us for that matter-has of his little brother."

"When will he be coming by?" I ask quickly to not linger on John's last comment.

"He said, whenever you'd permit him." John replies, "He wants to respect your wishes, but at the same time not be completely shut out of the boy's life. That is reasonable, Elfie."

"Fine." I sigh heavily and kiss Hamish's forehead, "It is the right thing to do, letting Mycroft see him. I just…I haven't forgiven him, John."

"I know, I know." John says, patting my leg, "Let's not talk about that, though, okay? This is a good moment; one we haven't had since…well, in a long time. Let's cherish it, alright."

I look up at my friend and we both smile. He's right; this is the brightest moment either of us have had since Sherlock died and it feels…right. I will always miss him and so will John, but maybe this little boy will help us both to move on. I made a promise to myself that I would tell Hamish all about how great his father was and I, in away, that's my way of coping. Sherlock's memory will always be there in our family, I will make sure of it.

"John," I say, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Fee," John says

"That male nurse who was in here; the blonde one. He was beside me during the delivery."

"Oh, yeah, that guy. He was whispering to you during the delivery, while you were calling out for Sherlock. He seemed to be really calm and collected; He even cut the umbilical cord, insisted on it really. A damn good nurse if you ask me. He sort of disappeared afterwards, don't know where he went."

"Well, I just wanted to know. Does anyone at this hospital know my real name? You know, does anyone know that I'm…Sherlock Holmes' wife?"

John furrows his brow in confusion: "No, Mycroft made sure of that." He says, "Hence why we checked in under your maiden name. We didn't want to attract attention. What's that got to do with that nurse?"

I look back at Hamish, now peacefully asleep but clutching onto my finger. Why would this male nurse, especially one who had never delivered a baby before, want to cut the umbilical cord? And he was talking to me? But I didn't here him…I only heard Sherlock's voice in my head.

"Fee, what's wrong?" John asks.

"Nothing, nothing really." I reply, "It's just…John, could you go check something for me?"

"Sure. What am I looking for?"

"A nurse by the name of Basil Altamont." I say, "That was his name." John gives me an assuring nod then exits the room to inquire at the front desk. To my surprise, he returns only mere moments later. "Well?" I ask.

"Fee, he…he doesn't exist." John replies, looking at me with the deepest confusion, "The woman at the front desk had never heard of him and there was no one on file under that name."

"But…we saw him." I point out, "He was right here."

"Well, why do you need to look him up?" John asks, "Did he do something wrong?"

"No, not at all. He was actually very helpful…very."

That imagine of this mysterious nurse returns to my brain as well as that familiar look he had about him. It doesn't make sense; if he wasn't a registered nurse, then how was he let in? And why would he come to my room and stay for the whole birth? Not only stay, but be my comforter as well. He was so helpful and kind: rubbing my back, holding my hand. It was almost like he knew exactly what I needed to calm down. It was like…he knew me.

"He called me Mrs. Holmes, John." I finally say, looking at my best friend with worried eyes, "Why would he call me Mrs. Holmes?"