Chapter Ten: Bonds
"Shit," Sherlock breathed, staring with wide eyes at the wall, as if willing the answer as to what he was supposed to do would simply fall out and present itself if he looked at it long enough, and with enough desperation. "John…" he finally managed, the panic of uncertainty beginning to settle uncomfortably in his veins. "Yes, good. John. I need John. John!" he yelled down the stairs, hurrying over to the landing and gripping onto the frame, the panic momentarily fogging his brain. "Wait. Not here. Gone. Mobile. Okay, okay." Breath quickly increasing in speed, Sherlock's mind started to clear. He dared a quick glance towards his watch. It had been a minute and thirty seconds since he'd felt the first contraction. Good. Hurrying over to the couch and forcing himself to remain calm, the detective sat down and pulled out his mobile. Fingers flying over the buttons as he dialed John's number, Sherlock absently cradled his stomach, willing away another contraction with all his might as he heard the ringing in his ear. "Oh, come on, John," he whispered desperately. "For God's sakes pick up your damn mobile!"
When the dial tone changed to voicemail, Sherlock scoffed a sound of desperation, now truly terrified that he didn't have John to inform him on what he was supposed to do. "Okay, okay. Here we go then," he sighed, sharp features creased into an expression of uncertainty and sheer fright. "You, my dear, have the most horrible timing," the detective chuckled suddenly, if only to prevent himself from crying as he cradled his stomach. "Much like me, I suppose… I most certainly hope one of us is ready. By the way, I'm talking about you. Because I have absolutely no bloody idea as to what I'm supposed to be doing. So how about I just… Go with you, hmm?" Sherlock murmured, managing a smile as he gazed at his middle and realized that he would soon be able to see and touch and hold the little life he'd been growing inside of him for the past months.
"Okay… Okay… We can do this right?" the detective breathed airily, running a hand through his raven curls. With a few fingers still resting, as if to ground himself, on his stomach, the detective crawled onto the couch and rolled onto his side, so he was facing the back of the sofa. Heaving a somewhat pained sigh, Sherlock pulled out his phone while simultaneously wedging a pillow between his bent knees.
To: John Watson at 9:14 a.m.
John. Come home NOW.
SH
To: John Watson at 9:17 a.m.
Please, John. Need you at flat.
SH
To: John Watson at 9:21 a.m.
JOHN WATSON, ANSWER YOUR MOBILE.
SH
To: John Watson at 9:22 a.m.
NOW.
SH
To: John Watson at 9:31 a.m.
When you get back, I am going to install a microchip in your head that will ring every time you get a call or message so that you will answer your BLOODY PHONE.
SH
To: John Watson at 9:34 a.m.
Fine. I do believe I am in labour and I need you here to help me.
SH
To John Watson at 9:34 a.m.
… Please.
SH
Breath quickly becoming more rapid in pace as he sensed the tell-tale signs of a contraction quickly approaching, Sherlock merely wrapped his slender fingers around the mobile and clutched it to his chest. "Oh, John, please hurry the hell up," the detective gasped softly as he felt his whole body begin to tense up in preparation. "Oh, dear bloody hell," he moaned into the nearest pillow as the contraction started. Though the pain was not anywhere near unbearable, it was accompanied by an unimaginable bout of fear, which seems to intensify the pain in some way.
"Come on, John," Sherlock breathed into the couch as the contraction ended. "Where are you? Damn it."
He could not do this alone.
The detective took a little comfort in knowing that, technically speaking, there was another person with him. However, at the same time, it utterly terrified him, knowing that she could do nothing at all to help him; his baby's safety and life were entirely in his hands at the moment… What if he did something wrong? What if he couldn't do it at all? He needed John. John would keep them both safe.
Shuddering with fear and worry, Sherlock curled even further around himself, buried a hand in his hair and willed John to arrive with all of his might.
He didn't know how much time had passed. Enough to experience three contractions and three rushes of intense fear. John. John. John. Where is he? Sherlock merely remained curled in on himself, trying to accept the fact that he might have to do this alone...
Just then, however, the detective heard the distinct tread of John's shoes making their way up the stairs. Sherlock sobbed a sigh of relief as another contraction started.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, what the bloody hell is happening? I came back as soon as I got your…"
Sherlock nearly cried out in joy as he heard John come bounding up the stairs. "Please," he whispered as the contraction started, knowing John had paused just before the entryway and couldn't see him, curled up on the couch. The detective heard his flat mate's mobile beeping incessantly and suddenly realized that the doctor had probably lost service, due to the snowstorm, and was just now getting all of the messages he'd sent. Meaning he would be seeing the last ones in about...
"Oh my… Sherlock!"
Finally. Sherlock sighed aloud in relief as he finally heard John enter the flat. "Thank god," he breathed, closing his eyes as the contraction peaked, too focused on the pain he was feeling to care about his flat mate anymore.
John, having just entered the flat, nearly froze in his place as he saw Sherlock, curled up on the couch, quite clearly in pain, breathing his way through what the doctor knew was a contraction. "Oh… Jesus, Sherlock," he cried sadly, hurrying over to the sofa and kneeling down. "Are you all right?"
"Oh fine," the detective answered, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "Just…" A breath. "Trying to have a baby," he finished, with much less fervor. "Oh." Heaving a deep breath, Sherlock's body relaxed into the sofa as the pain of the contraction slowly ebbed away. Brushing his curls away from his forehead, the detective rolled onto his side and sat up with a sound of effort. "How bad is it?"
"What?" John asked, clearly overwhelmed by the whole situation.
"Outside, John. The weather. How bad?"
"Oh. Oh… Sherlock?"
"They've closed the roads?"
"How did… Yes, yes. They've closed the roads… The cabbie almost refused to take me back to the flat."
"Mmm… Well… That's most unfortunate."
"Yeah," John scoffed, amazed by how calm his friend appeared to be. "Sherlock, listen, I don't know if I can—" John was stopped mid-sentence, both by the finger the detective was now holding in front of his lips and the absolutely icy glare from his eyes.
"You don't know if you can? No. I am the one having a baby. I don't want to hear it," Sherlock spat as he shoved himself up from the couch and sauntered over towards the kitchen.
"Right. Right, sorry. Of course." Realizing quite quickly that Sherlock was in a mood—and rightfully so—John decided to give the detective some space and get him whatever he needed.
"Good," Sherlock approved with a firm nod of his head. "Right, then, Doctor Watson. What do I do?" the detective asked, his bravery fading slightly with the realization that this was happening. He was in labour. With his baby.
Almost instantly switching into 'doctor' mode, John strode over to where his friend was standing, looking quite petrified now, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be all right. Now… When did the contractions start, how far apart are they, and how long have they been lasting?"
"Right, well, I believe the first contractions started at approximately 1:15 this morning, but they were so weak, I had just assumed they were the Braxton Hicks things you had told me about."
"Okay, good. Braxton Hicks—"
"Yes, yes, that," Sherlock sighed with a submissive wave of his hand as he started to pace around the sitting room, absently rubbing his slender fingers into his wrists and palms. "So far, I've only had five or six really noticeable contractions, and they were each…" He checked his watch. "Approximately twenty minutes and forty-one seconds apart. They've been lasting about forty-five seconds to a minute," Sherlock explained with a proud nod of his head, feeling he had, in some way, accomplished something important.
"Okay… And how painful were they?" John asked, quickly stripping off his coat and rolling up his sleeves as he watched his flat mate pace.
"Well, they're certainly not unbearable at this point, but they're kind of like… An irritating burn. Or painful cramp. But, as I said… Not quite unbearable."
"That's good. Okay, okay…" Kneading several fingers into his temple, John took a few steadying breaths before straightening his spine, setting his jaw, and pressing his lips together.
"Good?" Sherlock asked, with a hint of a smirk.
"Mmm. Let's have a baby."
One Hour and Two Minutes
"John," Sherlock called as strongly as he could from where he was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen.
"Another one?" the doctor asked, quickly hurrying over to his friend's side and placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on the detective's back as he tucked his mobile back into his pocket.
"Mmm," Sherlock merely hummed in response, closing his eyes and attempting to focus on taking deep breaths in and out.
"Are they getting more painful?"
"Yes," the detective breathed, uttering a kind of sob as the contraction began to peak.
"Can I get you anything?" John asked, not enjoying seeing his friend in such obvious pain. "I could get you some sort of—"
"No!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, causing the doctor to jump. "No medication. I don't want it," he breathed, sounding strained.
"Sherlock, it may—"
"I don't care if it will help, I don't want any. Please, just… I don't want it… Oh God." Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock pressed his forehead firmly against the frame of the entryway and clutched at the nearest thing his hand could find, which happened to be John's arm.
"There you go… Just like that," John soothed, having completely given over to his doctor side. "Almost there…"
With a soft exhale of breath, Sherlock's tense body relaxed as the contraction slowly wore away. "Finally. Why on earth must you do that?" he added, though he was now talking to his stomach, which he hadn't even noticed he'd been cradling. "What did Lestrade say?"
"Sorry, mate," John apologized, removing his hand. "He's got no way to get here. Cabs aren't driving in this… You know, you may want to rest."
"Yes," Sherlock breathed, brows tugging together, as if in confusion.
"Doing all right?" John asked worriedly.
"My brain."
"What about it?"
"It's not working properly," the detective stated in pure horror, suddenly turning to John, petrified.
"What do you mean it's not working properly?"
"It's getting all… All muddled and foggy!" Sherlock cried worriedly with a frantic wave of his fingers as he started pacing again, occasionally brushing his fingers over his concealed middle in a hurried gesture.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me," John said in a calming voice as he trailed closely behind the detective's quickly slowing pacing. "That's perfectly natural. You're… You're going through a very traumatic experience, and, unfortunate as it may be, the body might start compensating by… Turning some things off."
"Like my mind?! No. No, that cannot happen, John. Without… John, if I can't think, if I can't—I—I won't be able to concentrate properly! No, no that's not right… John…" Looking utterly broken, Sherlock collapsed into his chair, wrapping his arms protectively around his middle before turning a teary-eyed gaze to his flat mate.
"Hey… Hey, Sherlock, look at me." Chuckling sadly at his friend's rather pathetic-looking form, John strode over to the detective's chair and knelt down, catching the detective's steel-grey gaze. "You're brain is not shutting off. It's merely distributing its energy elsewhere… Sherlock, I promise you… You are going to be just fine. You're having a baby. And we've barely just started. You're doing beautifully so far, okay? Just… Try to relax. You're still going to be brilliant as ever, don't you worry about that; your brain will still be perfectly functional and rigorous throughout this whole thing, it's just going to get a bit tired, all right? I'm sorry I said anything."
"You're sure?" Sherlock sighed, fingers curling against his still-rather-small bump.
"Absolutely positive. But right now… We need to focus on this, yeah?" the doctor said tenderly, placing a feather-light hand to the bottom of his flat mate's stomach. "Right?"
"Yes," Sherlock murmured, running a thumb over his clothed middle. " Focus. Focusing. All right. Yes, I can do that… Apologies."
"That's all right. I think I can give you a little leeway. You know… Considering," John joked with a nod to Sherlock's belly and a smile.
"Yes," the detective chuckled back in response, shoving himself into a sitting position, but keeping his hands protectively shielding his stomach. "I need to change." Without further explanation, Sherlock swiftly left the chair and strode—as well as he could—into his room.
"O—okay." By the time John had uttered the words, however, and managed to plop down in his own chair, Sherlock was ghosting back into the room, dressed only a pair of loose-fitting pajama bottoms, and was gracefully pulling on his robe.
"More comfortable?"
"Mmm. Much." Sighing in relief as he relaxed into the chair, Sherlock slowly crossed his legs, wincing slightly as he did so, before leaning back and allowing his head to rest against the back of the chair. "Mmm," he hummed, in a mix of relief and mild irritation. "This is most insufferable."
"What's that?"
"This," Sherlock murmured with a nod to his middle, before leaning back and closing his eyes.
"Maybe," John chuckled, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. "But necessary… And you're sure you want to do all this here? I could try the cab service again, if—"
"I am fine, John."
"All right, all right. Just… Making a suggestion."
"Mmm."
"Right." Tapping a few fingers against his chair, John's gaze slowly travelled about the flat, for lack of anything better to do, before settling once again on Sherlock's splayed form. He noticed a thin sheen of sweat was beginning to form on the detective's forehead. Deciding to get his friend some water, the doctor silently left his chair and slipped into the kitchen. He returned, cup in hand, and knelt down on one side of Sherlock's chair. "Here, drink this, I…" John paused when noticed that the detective was actually peacefully sleeping, for the first time, he suspected, in several weeks. "Poor git," he mumbled fondly, placing the glass on the floor and moving back to his chair, careful not to bump his flat mate's long limbs.
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed softly in his sleep, curling up on the chair and around the protrusion of his middle. A soft exhale of breath escaped the detective's lips as he settled into the cushions of the chair.
Smiling to himself, John found a blanket and carefully draped it over his friend's sleeping form, secretly pleased with himself when the detective didn't awaken. "You're doing well," he added fondly, giving Sherlock's covered arm a soft pat. "God help us…"
Sherlock managed to make it through four more hours of contractions just pressing his hands to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through the entire thing. And John was more than impressed and proud of him for it. Sherlock's spaces in which he could rest, however, were slowly becoming shorter and shorter, and it was clear exhaustion was starting to get to the detective. He seemed to blinking much more, though not as quickly, his lips were almost constantly parted just slightly and his breathing was slowly becoming more and more rapid as the tendrils of panic started to grip his entire—exhausted—body.
Seven Hours and Twelve Minutes
"You're doing beautifully, Sherlock. Come on, just—"
"Oh shut up, John!" Sherlock cried, though he was clinging to the doctor's hand for dear life as he screwed his eyes shut in pain at the much-stronger and more painful contraction.
"Oh, come here, dear," chimed Mrs. Hudson's voice, who had, much to her sheer horror, walked in on Sherlock mid-contraction about an hour ago. She quickly fled over to the arm of the chair and knelt down before brushing a few sweaty curls out of the detective's eyes. "Keep going, love," she crooned, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, even though Sherlock would have preferred she didn't, but didn't have the heart nor the strength to tell her so.
"Trying," he breathed, opening his eyes and fixing them on chip he'd put in the ceiling nearly a year before as he attempted to breath through the pain. "Oh God, John," he groaned unable to force his eyes open any longer. Whimpering slightly, the detective frantically attempted to take ahold of his flat mate as the pain—impossibly, he thought—increased in intensity. Fingers flying about, Sherlock eventually managed to bury them in the warmth and softness of John's jumper as he curled even further around his tense middle, pulling away from the coolness of Mrs. Hudson's cloth on his forehead. "Please," he begged, barely noticing as two sets of hands began to rub soothing circles into his back and shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John whispered, meaning it as he continued to rub circles into the detective's back. "Keep going... I'm just here, mate, okay?"
"Yes... Yes," Sherlock breathed painfully, focusing on the reassuring warmth radiating from John's body; allowing it to course from his fingertips and spread through and fill his veins. "Okay... Okay..." Entire body heaving with laboured breaths, Sherlock just rode out this much-longer contraction, clinging desperately to John and drinking in the oddly reassuring motherly-like smell of Mrs. Hudson.
"Finally," he gasped, releasing John's jumper from his clutches and collapsing back onto the couch as the contraction ended.
"Very good job," Mrs. Hudson praised, taking Sherlock's limp hand in her own and rubbing her thumb over and across the skin.
"Mmm," the detective merely hummed in reply, closing his eyes as he attempted to calm down.
"How are you feeling?" John asked.
Sherlock opened his eyes long enough to send the doctor a positively chilling glare before closing them again and returning to his breathing.
"Right. Sorry… Can I get you anything, then?"
"Bed… Bedroom."
"You would prefer to move into the bedroom?"
"Yes." Mustering enough strength to push himself into a sitting position, Sherlock briefly let his head lean back and rest against the wall before setting his jaw and taking ahold of his flat mate's arm. "Yes. Bedroom. Now… Please."
"Of course, of course." John quickly stood, allowing Sherlock to grip his arm.
With a quick intake of breath and then a hiss, the detective was upright, one hand cradling his stomach, the other clutching fiercely to John's forearm.
"Ready?" the doctor asked gently, knowing how much pain and stress the detective was going through at the moment.
"Mmm."
With careful footfalls and hand placements, the two flat mates finally made it to the bedroom, where Sherlock promptly collapsed onto the bed and curled up around his stomach, wanting nothing more than to rest. "John," he whispered, too tired to speak any louder, though the doctor's name came out more as a moan.
"Right here," the doctor responded quickly, moving to the other side of the bed and sitting down.
"John, I… I can't do this," Sherlock cried suddenly. Now that he had left the brightness of the sitting room, and Mrs. Hudson, and with it all, his bravery, the detective was quickly feeling the darkness of his room wrap cold hands of vulnerability around him. "I—I can't do it! What if—if something happens, or—or… What… John, I can't!" Feeling the fear and doubts that had been just trailing around in his mind suddenly take complete hold, Sherlock pressed his face into the nearest pillow in an attempt to hide the tears he now felt streaking down his warm cheeks.
"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed at his friend's sad, over-exhausted, labouring form. "Sherlock, look at me," he urged, placing a hand on the detective's shoulder.
"I can't do it, John," Sherlock merely whispered in response, shuddering as he felt another contraction start to take hold of his body.
"Yes you can!" John kept a firm hold of his friend's hand as together they worked through his contraction. When finally, John could see that the pain was fading, he caught Sherlock's gaze, glad when the detective held it. "Sherlock, look at me. You are doing beautifully," he praised, enunciating the word with as much intensity as he could. "You have done beyond exceptionally well so far! And I promise you… We can do this, all right? We will do this… We're almost there, all right? Just a little longer, and then you'll have your baby and it'll all be over, okay? But until then, you have to keep going, yes? For her sake?" John murmured, using Sherlock's preferred gender, as he knew it always calmed him down, and in complete and total doctor mode.
"Yes… Okay… Good," Sherlock murmured, re-gathering his breath. Finding that the bed was actually more uncomfortable than the couch, the detective rolled onto his back and pushed himself into a sitting position. "I need to walk," he stated, burying a few fingers in his curls as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made to stand up.
"Ah. Sherlock?" John stated rather awkwardly, eyes downcast.
"Hmm?" the detective hummed, pausing his movement.
"Well, we're uhm… We're getting rather…" A sigh. "Fine. We're getting quite far along with the labour, and I just… I'm going to need to check you." Afraid that he would be met with a glare, and possibly some sort of physical assault, John hesitantly glanced up at his flat mate, only to find the detective was smirking at him. "What?"
"You."
"What about me?"
"You're just so embarrassed about it," Sherlock chuckled tiredly, though the smirk had not left his lips.
"Well, yes of course I am!" the doctor countered defensively. "You're—you're my best friend, and it just—it seems—I don't know—"
"John," Sherlock sighed, pressing a few fingers to his temple and chuckling in a somewhat-crazed way. "You could shove your whole arm up my arse, and at this point, I really couldn't care less. I want her out, and I don't bloody care what you have to do to make that happen." A shrug. "Don't care. Just do it and get it over with."
Slightly taken aback by Sherlock's no-nonsense attitude, John gave a sharp nod of his head, and, ignoring the flush rising on cheeks, quickly found a pair of gloves he'd stored away, now feeling quite embarrassed that he'd thought Sherlock would be the one who was most uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Groaning softly at the effort, the detective rolled himself back onto the bed and settled as comfortably as he could into the pillows while he waited for John.
"Right, then," the doctor mumbled, now at the foot of the bed. "Still doing all right?"
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response, closing his eyes as he felt the tell-tale signs of a contraction quickly approaching.
"Right, then." Knowing his flat mate's pants had been shucked long ago, John quickly, and quite embarrassedly pushed the detective's legs apart, pulled down his trousers, and did the exam, knowing that another contraction had started to grip his friend's already-tired body.
"Okay," John sighed, hurrying over towards Sherlock and kneeling down. "You're almost at five centimeters."
"Is that good?" the detective groaned as he frantically tried to escape the confines of the bed.
"Yes, that's very good," John encouraged. He quickly offered an arm to help his friend, which the detective eagerly gripped onto. "Here, we need to get some more liquids in you." Sherlock merely nodded in agreement, hurrying over to the wall and leaning heavily against it.
"Will you be all right?" John asked, slowly releasing the detective from his person.
"Mmm. Yes, go."
"Right."
Sherlock released a small whimper and then a cry when he was sure John was out of earshot. "Oh… Dear Lord," he groaned into the wall, clutching desperately to stomach, as if trying to press the pain away. "Just. Come. Out!"
"What?" John asked confusedly as he glided back into the room, a cup of ice chips in hand. "Come out of what?"
"Not you!" the detective snapped, trying to breath through the pain. "Her!"
"Oh. Ohh… Sorry."
"Oh God, John. Why must… Uhn..."
"Sorry, mate," John mumbled truthfully, rubbing a few fingers into his friend's shoulder.
"Lower," the detective pleaded, now leaning fully against the wall and gripping the doorframe with his slender fingers.
"Sorry, what?"
"Rub lower. Please. It helps."
"Oh, right. Of course." Obliging, the doctor carefully lowered his fingers until he was kneading them steadily into Sherlock's lower back. He carefully moved them back and forth over the clothed skin until he heard the detective utter a sigh of what he hoped was relief and not pain. "There?"
"Mmm."
"Right, then." Focusing intently on that particular spot, John merely continued to move his fingers in a rhythmical fashion, feeling somehow like he'd achieved something—some small victory amidst the pain and labour that his friend was going through—when he felt Sherlock's skin begin to loosen and relax under his fingers. "There we go… Just like that. Keep going, Sherlock."
"Trying to."
Nine Hours and Fifty-Two Minutes
"How far?" Sherlock groaned from where he was lying on his back on the bed. "How far, John?"
"Six centimeters."
"Ugh!" Throwing his head back, both in defeat at the lack of quick progress and the pain, Sherlock heaved a pained sigh and rolled onto his side, deciding to breath his way through this contraction.
"Sorry, mate. But believe it or not, you're actually making very good progress."
"Sure doesn't bloody well feel like it," the detective huffed.
"Well, no. I'm sure it doesn't," John chuckled sadly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and gazing at his friend's now-bare back. "But you'll make it through."
"Oh, shut up and leave the sentiment."
"Right. Sorry."
Ten Hours and Twenty Minutes
"Sherlock, I think you should probably be resting."
"Don't want to," the detective muttered from where he was pacing back and forth across the length of his room, hands pressing steadily under his stomach and robe fluttering gracefully behind him. "Gravity. I need gravity."
"Gravity's not really going to help much at this point; that'll help when she's actually coming. But right now, we've just got to wait for her to move down, I'm afraid… Something gravity will not be much assistance with."
This gave pause to the detective's pacing. "Really?" he questioned, brows drawn together.
"Really," John responded with a chuckle. "Seriously, I would suggest lying down and resting between contractions. You'll need the energy soon enough, and I would really recommend getting as much rest as you can." To emphasize, he gave the bed a tiny pat. Sherlock merely stared at his resting hand for a few moments, as if thinking if he could glare the suggestion, or rather the whole situation, away. "Ugh. You really think so?" he sighed eventually, letting his hands drop to his sides, as if in defeat.
"Yes. I do. Doctor, remember."
"Not one that delivers babies, however, as you are very keen to remind us all." Giving a huff of indignant displeasure, Sherlock quickly pulled off his robe, draped it over the end of his bed, and crawled in, rolling on his side so his back was facing the door and his flat mate.
Suddenly, there came a rush of exhaustion that filled his entire body and began quickly pumping through his veins, causing his eyes to flutter a bit with the will to close. "Mmm… Maybe, yes," he managed, so quietly he wasn't even sure John heard.
"Maybe what?"
"Might… Be… Hmm…" With a tiny sigh, Sherlock gave in to the powerful urge of exhaustion that was tugging at his eyelids, and allowed them to slide closed. Suddenly, the bed, where as it had seemed even worse than the couch, felt incredibly feathery and comfortable; its safety seemed to envelop him, giving him a rather reassuring, radiating warmth that blossomed in his chest.
With a deep breath, Sherlock managed to get his hands to somehow find his middle, the protective holding place for his baby… His baby… Oh. Almost taken by the hands of sleep, Sherlock found himself an odd moment of peace from the pain he'd been feeling so frequently these past hours. A small smile graced the detective's lips. "Pillow, John," his deep baritone voice rumbled through the foggy haze surrounding him.
"What? Oh. Right. Here you are." The doctor quickly found the sought out item and made his way around the bed. "Ah," he smirked upon seeing his flat mate's exhausted, and quickly-tiring form. "Feeling a tad tired and going to take a rest, are we?"
"John. I am not in the mood. Yes, fine, you were correct. But quite frankly, I am thoroughly exhausted, my body aches everywhere, I am experiencing pain which you bloody well never will know of, and I am trying to shove a baby out of me. So yes, pardon me if, after ten hours of labouring, I am rather longing for sleep. Now, if it wouldn't bother you too terribly, give me my pillow, do piss off, and leave me be." Giving John a glare, Sherlock rolled onto his other side, turning his back to the doctor, wedged the pillow between his knees and closed his eyes, giving in to the exhaustion.
"Right, then. Sorry mate."
John was quite shocked, and strangely saddened when Sherlock slept through nearly thirty-five minutes of contractions, so completely exhausted and thoroughly spent, that the pain was not enough to shake him awake, only proving how worn and weary the detective had truly been, though he refused to let on. And for some unknown reason, John felt strangely sad that his friend had been going through such exhaustion, and yet he never let on.
Squaring his jaw, and deciding that he was going to help as much as was humanely possible, John left his friend's room, gathered up several towels and other items that would be needed for when the birthing time actually came, and then strode back in. "Here we go, mate." Placing the items at the foot of the bed, and then picking up a wet towel he'd brought in, John sat down on the edge of the bed and then, minding his flat mate's sleeping form, tenderly pressed the cool cloth to Sherlock's forehead, avoiding the detective's curls. "Keep going, Sherlock. You're doing wonderfully."
Eleven Hours
Sherlock awoke with a small gasp, jolted from his rest by an all-too-familiar pain. Frowning when his usually-keen senses did not thrum to life as quickly as they should, the detective's eyes fluttered opened a bit, and then closed again as he tried to place an unknown pressure on his forehead. Headache? No, no pain… Well, no pain in the head vicinity, at least. Pressure… Cool… Voice… Voices, plural. Hand on forehead. Brushing hair away… Soft… Mrs. Hudson. Voice. John. Calm... Name. Sherlock…. John. Name. Sherlock… Oh.
"John?"
"Sherlock, how are you feeling?"
Sherlock could feel a weight shift in the bed, a sudden pressure relieving, and then felt a dip, suggesting the pressure had been returned. He assumed Mrs. Hudson had gotten up and John had taken her place. He felt another cool pressure on his forehead. "Mmm… Bloody awful," he muttered, forcing his eyes open to find John's form seated, as he'd thought, where Mrs. Hudson had once been, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.
"Yes, I'd imagine. You poor bugger. You've been out for nearly forty minutes."
"Most certainly doesn't feel like it," Sherlock grumbled as he forced himself into a sitting position, regretting it when the pain of the contraction peaked and he was unable to move from the awkward spot. "Is everything still going all right?" he breathed when the pain ebbed.
"As far as I can tell," John reassured.
"Good, yes. Good… Yes… How far along?"
"I haven't checked recently."
"If you would."
"Right."
Somehow feeling—impossibly—more tired than before, Sherlock more-or-less fell back onto the bed, letting his head rest against the pillows as he planted his feet on the bed, waiting for his flat mate.
"Ready?" John asked with a gentle pat to the detective's pale knee.
"Quite."
"Good…"
Sherlock waited patently, chuckling to himself as he heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim, "Oh!" and then quickly scurry from the room.
"Poor Mrs. Hudson," John chuckled as well. "We're probably scarring her."
"She'll be all right. She's been through this herself, so she should very well be able to watch."
"But it's different, Sherlock," John tried to explain. "You're like a son to her. And you're also at seven centimeters."
Sherlock groaned, though it really sounded more like a whimper, and then quickly rolled himself onto his side as he felt another contrition start to burn through him. "Why would it be… different?" he gasped, squeezing his mouth shut in an effort to avoid crying out from the pain.
"Nevermind," John chuckled sadly, squatting down by the bed so he was at eye-level with his labouring flat mate.
"John!" Sherlock cried, unable to contain the building pressure. Keeping his eyes pressed shut, the detective blindly reached several slender fingers out. "John, please!" he whimpered, desperately trying to find the doctor's reassuring form.
"Hey, hey. Shh… Just here, Sherlock." John reached out and wrapped his flat mate's fingers in a reassuring hold, ignoring the way Sherlock's fingernails were digging into his flesh. "That's it, keep going."
"I can't! John, I can't… Oh. Oh my… How can…" How was this happening? Sherlock thought, now unable to distinguish anything but the pain. He'd rested. Everything was supposed to feel better. And yet it seemed as if during the rest, his body had decided to take a break, and as such, the contractions, which were already becoming increasingly stronger, seemed to have intensified to insurmountable proportions, and the pain accompanied with them seemed unbearable, as if now his body had to build a resistance again; a normalcy to feeling such pain. "John, it hurts so… Oh God!"
John frowned sadly as he saw a single tear slide from the corner of Sherlock's eye and travel down his cheek, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. "I know it does. I know… Keep going, Sherlock."
"I can't! I can't! It's too—" A whimper. And then, unable to manage more than a whisper, Sherlock rasped, "I can't, John."
"You can and you will. Come on, you're nearly there. Don't give up now, you hear me?"
"Yes… Yes…" The pain slowly ebbed away. With a shaky intake of breath, Sherlock embarrassedly released John's fingers. "Apologies."
"Nothing to apologize for."
"Thank you," the detective whispered, still trying to regain his breath and energy. "I need to walk."
"Here, I'll help you."
"No, on my own." Feeling as if he was somehow failing, Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position and slid off the bed, instantly letting a hand travel to his stomach, which he now noticed seemed to be hanging much lower, and felt somehow flat. "John? John, what's happening?" he fretted, sprawling his fingers over the pale, exposed flesh.
"With what? Oh. Your belly?" A nod. "That's good. We want that. It means the baby is on her way to dropping into the birth canal."
"And that's good?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, staring at the lower-hanging flesh of his belly, feeling terror at the prospect that soon his baby would be here, in the real world, and not be safe within him.
"Very. That's what we want. The sooner the baby drops into the birth canal, the sooner we get to meet the little one."
"Oh. I see… I need the loo."
"Need me to—"
"Shut up."
"Okay." Bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, John stopped himself from following Sherlock and swung his arms back and forth, having nothing better to do. He watched as Sherlock's swift form quickly disappeared into the bathroom, amazed how lofty he still was with his walking. Though, it was Sherlock. He shouldn't be surprised that even in throes of incredibly painful labour, the detective could mange to still be graceful.
Sherlock quickly shut the door behind him and moved over to the toilet, kneeling down in front of it, trying to subdue the nausea that was churning in his stomach. "Oh, little one," he breathed, cradling his middle with a free hand. "Come on. Come on… We can do it, yeah? We can do it." Trying to wrap his head around the fact that his baby was working just as hard as he was—though it most certainly didn't feel that way—Sherlock took a gulp of air, instantly regretting it as it only made his stomach boil worse than before.
The detective's deft fingers quickly flew away from his stomach and found the handle of the faucet, turning it on and starting it running, so as to muffle the sound of him dry-heaving into the bowl. No. Stop it! he mentally scolded himself, feeling childish for his reaction. He was Sherlock Holmes. He should be able to handle the situation; think through it logically. Right, yes.
With a hard shove away from the toilet, and not bothering to turn the water off, Sherlock let his limp body rest heavily against the tub, enjoying the fact that it was sturdy and grounding behind him. "Oh," he murmured breathlessly, attempting to catch his breath as he was gripped by the burning of another contraction.
"Come on, love. Let's do this." Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock quickly disentangled himself from his robe, pulling his long arms from the silky, restricting fabric. "Oh, God," the detective groaned as he felt the weight and pressure begin to sting and spread, all too familiar with the sensation. Unable to support himself through the pain, Sherlock rolled away from the tub and planted his forearms on the tiled floor, letting his bottom stick out above him as he attempted—and failed—to merely breath through the contraction.
As the pain peaked, Sherlock cried out and bowed the upper part of his body even further to the ground, as if to press himself into and through it, and then threw his forearms back over his head. He could feel the tense, straining muscles of his back traveling over the sharp contours of his shoulders, moving and spasming with the pain.
The detective could vaguely hear John knocking on the door, though he was too deep in the throes of pain to really care.
He felt like crying. He felt like tearing his hair out, yelling, shouting, screaming. Anything to get the pain to seem less significant. Sherlock gasped, nearly coughing with the strength of the intake of breath as the contraction peaked, and he felt a strange sensation. He instantly knew what it was, though the feeling of his baby moving far lower than he was used to was a new experience, and possibly one of the strangest he'd felt to date. He could feel her twisting and turning with the contraction, as if she, too, were fighting to escape the pain.
"I'm sorry," he breathed into the tile floor, placing a hand low on his stomach, where he'd felt the movement, which was still continuing. It felt strange feeling his baby's little legs and feet kicking him so low, even stranger, seeing as he'd not experienced any significant movement from her for several days. "We can do it… I feel you there… I know… I know…"
Deciding he'd had enough, John carefully pushed open the bathroom door and hurried over to his flat mate's labouring form. "Come on, mate," he murmured, helping Sherlock to his feet. "How we doing?"
"Better," Sherlock sighed truthfully. "Much better."
Fourteen Hours and Two Minutes
Sherlock spent the next several hours of his contractions on the bed, with his forearms planted on the soft cushions beneath him, and his bottom in the air.
"Okay, Sherlock," John breathed, feeling the terror he imagined Sherlock must have been feeling begin to crawl its way into his own veins. "you're at ten centimeters. That means—"
"Thank God!" Sherlock breathed, both in relief at the break in contraction and in hearing the word's he'd been longing to hear for so long. A tiny stream of tears carefully spilled their way out of the corner of his eyes and began to travel down his cheeks, mixing with the fine layer of sweat that was already presiding there. "John?" he breathed, attempting to sit up and turn himself over.
"I'm coming, mate." The doctor quickly hurried over and helped the detective.
Sherlock began to cry once again as he felt yet another contraction burn and tear through him. The detective quickly lowered himself into position and then moaned and sobbed into his forearm. Feeling a sad twinge in his chest, John kneaded his fingers into his flat mate's lower back and then used his free hand to massage the detective's tense, impossibly pale calf.
"That's it, mate."
"John, I need to push!" Sherlock cried, baring his teeth as he grimaced.
"Go on; your body knows what to do. We'll need to get your trousers off, all right?" Sherlock merely gave a nod of his head in response. "Right, then. Here we are." The doctor carefully tugged off his friend's trousers, feeling a sad twinge in his chest as he noticed the detective's legs were shaking. However, from fear, pain, or a mixture of both, he couldn't tell. "There you go. You're doing so well. All right, go ahead."
With a heartbreaking sob, Sherlock took a huge gulp of air, which he instantly regretted, and bore down with all his strength.
"That's it, very good, just like that keep going!" John encouraged. "Mrs. Hudson! We'll be needing those towels!"
"John," Sherlock choked, reaching blindly for something to hold onto as he bore down again, lowing his upper half.
"I'm right here."
"Nothing's happening," the detective sighed in defeat.
"We need your waters to break, Sherlock." Then, as if on cue, there was a gush of fluids. John cried out with a laugh of joy and excitement. Sherlock, on the other hand, was merely attempting to catch his breath as the cushion protecting his baby from the outside world dissipated and the pain intensified.
Pain. Unbearable, excruciating pain. Sherlock so desperately wished to escape it; to be able to just curl into himself, have his baby in his arms, and make it all disappear.
"Come on, Sherlock, the baby's so close!"
After twenty-five minutes of hard, exhausting pushing, Sherlock was lying, completely naked, save for his robe, on his back on the bed with his feet firmly planted against the sheets. A steady sheen of sweat had formed across his pale forehead and down the delicate contours of his chest. John could physically see every muscle straining in his flat mate's still-lean body, working desperately to bring his child into the world. But, the doctor also knew, Sherlock was beyond tired, and then some, and was quickly losing his strength and determination.
"John," Sherlock murmured, tangling a hand in the sheets. His chest and much-smaller stomach heaved with pained, labored breaths.
"I'm right here, mate," John sighed, amazed at what was happening before him. He was practically giddy about the whole situation and knew that if Sherlock had the energy to, the detective would be sharing in his joy.
"I… Are we almost there? I…" Sherlock closed his eyes and John saw one of his hands float to his small stomach. The detective uttered something between a sob and a laugh. "She's gone."
John merely laughed heartily in response. "She's coming, Sherlock," he reassured, placing a tender hand to his friend's forehead and brushing away the sweaty curls. "You've done beautifully."
As his body tensed in preparation for another contraction, Sherlock opened his incredibly striking eyes, and John could see a new determination rousing from the multi-colored depths of his eyes.
After giving his friend's hand a squeeze, the doctor quickly returned to his spot between Sherlock's legs and frowned sadly when he saw the detective's entire body tense, accompanied by an intense, heartbreaking sob of pain.
"Oh… Oh! Sherlock, Sherlock the baby's crowning!" John cried triumphantly, as if he'd achieved something. Sherlock merely groaned in response, too far gone to really even notice John was speaking.
"Sherlock, she's coming! Okay, okay. I need you to roll over and get back into the leaning position for me, all right?"
And, despite his over-worked mind, Sherlock obeyed. "Oh God, John, it hurts!" the detective cried, not even noticing as his forearms became stained with his tears.
"I know, I know it does. But you're so close. All right… Now, I need you to give me one, very tiny push, and then you must stop. Do you understand?" Sherlock nodded with a strong exhale of breath.
"Good… Okay, tiny push… And… Stop, stop! I've got to check for a cord, all right?"
STOP? Sherlock's mind screamed. For the first time, the true realization of what was happening suddenly struck the detective with a powerful pang. He was soon going to have another life in his arms that was his to hold, to kiss, to protect, to care for, to love… And he was just moments away from meeting her.
"All right, Sherlock, just a few more and then it'll all be over. Push through the pain… Now."
Using the intense burning he was feeling, Sherlock mustered what little strength he had left and bore down with every fibre of his being. An echo of John's voice encouraging him was vaguely bouncing around in his head.
"That's it, Sherlock!" John cried triumphantly, conflicted as to whether he should be helping Sherlock—who was yelling in pain—or merely marveling at the miracle of what was happening before him. "Come on Sherlock, hardest part. Just the shoulders and then you're done! You're so close, mate! Her head is out; she's almost here!"
With one last cry, Sherlock gripped the headboard with his graceful fingers, and gave one final push. He could feel an unbelievable stretch, accompanied by the most indescribable pain he'd felt yet. And then, in a quick rush of movement, there was nothing… Nothing but a sound… The wailing cries of a baby.
"You did it! Dear God, Sherlock, you did it," John sighed, in complete and utter shock as he reached for the towels.
But Sherlock was not listening, not really. Chest heaving with a strange tension and excitement, Sherlock rolled himself back onto his back, and desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the tiny being he could hear making the most wonderful sound he had ever heard.
Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson was in the room, and there were tender hands brushing hair off of his forehead, and sheets were being removed and then replaced with clean ones. There were voices cooing and talking in excited whispers. Sherlock could hear the sound of the front door opening, and a series of footsteps running their way up the steps, and then Mrs. Hudson was shooing people away. There was noise everywhere, ringing and buzzing in Sherlock's ears, though the only one he cared about was the too-far away sound of his baby's cries. He should be soothing, holding, kissing, helping.
"John?" Somehow, he'd moved his lips and his voice had passed them. Fingers shaking, Sherlock's hand floated down to his stomach, and he placed his fingertips to where his baby had been just a few minutes ago. The detective gasped aloud as the palm of his hand lay flat over the planes of his middle and one word completely flooded his mind: empty.
"John. Where… Where is she?" The detective turned his gaze to the doctor, who was grinning down at something in his hands.
"You were right," the doctor laughed, turning to smile at his incredible friend. "It's a girl!"
Senses suddenly thrumming to life in a rush that seemed to be a release of hormones and the worries of the past months and hours, Sherlock laughed aloud, finding a renewed strength burning deep in his chest. He had a daughter. An actual daughter. He was right, and she was here!
"Would you like to see her?" John asked tenderly.
"Please," Sherlock whispered in response, pulling his upper body free of the clean sheets around him and sitting up.
"Right, then."
Heart beating impossibly fast beneath his chest, Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John left the end of the bed, a bundle wrapped in towels nestled in his arms. "Here you are," the doctor murmured with an impossibly joyous grin as he unwrapped the tiny baby from her nest of towels and handed her to his flat mate.
Sherlock's breath quite literally escaped him as his skin touched that of the incredibly tiny baby now in his arms.
With memories of what Moran had done burning through his mind, Sherlock turned his eyes to his daughter and suddenly, every single doubt, worry, insignificant detail of hesitation was washed away as the detective's gaze fell to the baby girl crying in his arms; she was beautiful. Absolutely, utterly perfect.
"Oh," Sherlock whispered as his eyes eagerly raked over the crying baby in his arms. The detective couldn't help but chuckle as she waved her incredibly tiny arms about and bumped him in the chest. "I know… I know it… That was rather rude of us, wasn't it?" Sherlock laughed, feeling his eyes quickly fill with tears. Tears he knew were not caused by hormones. "Shh… I'm right here, love." Blinking away the blurriness, and with tenderness—seemingly too gentle for a man with such a cold exterior—Sherlock took a hand and with incredible gentleness, wrapped his slender fingers around one of his daughter's flailing arms. He was amazed to find her entire hand did not even fill the palm of his hand, but rather rested just perfectly in the dip of it.
"John," he whispered, unable to take his eyes away from the most beautiful human being he'd ever seen.
"Yeah, mate… I know," the doctor responded in a whisper of his own, smiling at the tender scene in front of him. "Sherlock?"
"Mmm?"
"You're going to need to put her under the blanket, all right? She's very cold right now. Hold her close to your chest, though. She needs your body heat."
Sherlock hastily obeyed. Tearing his gaze away from his still-crying daughter, the detective quickly grabbed the blanket and brought it up so it was covering the baby's backside, and then pressed her close to his chest. "Shh, love. You're all right," he whispered, deep baritone voice filling the room. "I've got you… I'm right here."
Sherlock felt a flutter deep in his chest when the little girl calmed upon hearing the sound of his voice. "Did I do that?" he murmured in amazement.
"Of course you did," John chuckled fondly. "She's used to hearing your voice; it's familiar, therefore it's calming."
Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the fact that just his voice was able to provide some sort of calm in the trauma his child was now going through. "...John?" the detective asked, his voice just a whisper.
"Yeah, Sherlock?"
"Can I kiss her?"
"… Of course you can."
Brows pulled together in an expression of deep concentration, Sherlock watched as his daughter's cries slowly subsided to hasty breaths and whimpers, her impossibly tiny chest no longer heaving and shaking from the force of her cries. A single tear slid out of the corner of the detective's eye as he watched the baby girl squirm slightly in his arms before curling against his chest, her tiny hands resting against his skin. Sherlock could feel as her incredibly small fingers and toes curled and uncurled against him. This little baby—this tiny human being that he had made and grown inside of him—was his... She was finally here, in his arms, snuggled tightly against his chest.
Releasing a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding, Sherlock's eyes swept over the impossibly tiny wonder lying in his arms, taking in her perfect lips, which seemed to share a small resemblance to his own, her tiny, curled hands, bald head, and precious face… And then, moving cautiously so as not to hurt her in any way, the detective lowered his head and pressed a feather-light kiss to his daughter's tiny head. "John?" he asked, closing his eyes and keeping his lips resting just above the baby girl's head.
"Hmm?"
"Am I allowed to love her this much?" the detective whispered, turning his head and pressing the curve his cheek ever-so-slightly against the baby girl's head.
John merely smiled in response and, knowing people were waiting outside, silently left the room, closing the door behind him.
"I love you, little one," Sherlock whispered, allowing a smile of pure joy to spread across his cupid's bow lips as he felt another wave of tears begin to burn their way into his eyes. "My little one."
Hey guys! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations! Just wanted to let you know, that there will be more chapters, mainly about how Sherlock copes with being a new father and a ridiculous amount of baby fluff! Thank you guys! You all are incredible and I have to thank every single one who has been following and reading this! Thank you guys! You are incredible!