A/N: Hello again! A quick word before the chapter: Thank you so much for your continued reviews and other feedback. I really appreciate it, especially Amelia's review yesterday that pointed out a continuity error regarding their sex life. That's the problem with writing the chapters slightly out of order... minute details get overlooked. It has since then been fixed, so if nothing too glaring stuck out for you when you read the previous chapter, that's why. (Thank you Amelia!)

Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy!

The thing about maternity wards, Sherlock decided, was that they were far too busy. They were too rushed, too hasty about the welcoming of new life. Life was supposed to be sacred, but here, in the maternity ward, the sanctity of life was cheapened… they were simply another face, another number in the system.

He decided that he didn't like this maternity ward. He generally didn't like hospitals; the only hospital that he could tolerate was Bart's, but that was because Bart's had long become something of a place of peace for him. But this hospital, he did not like this. The nurses were too busy rushing back and forth. Of course, he understood it was because of the women who were about to deliver, but the stress that came with delivery seemed to contradict what he believed the welcoming of life meant.

But perhaps, the most unsettling thing about the maternity ward was how vividly he recalled Adele's birth. He had been absolutely horrified by how much pain Irene was in. He had been furious about the fact that no one seemed to care that she was writhing with pain and crying out. The concept of her delivery being normal made sense to him, but the physical ache he had felt as Irene's cries of pain rang out still haunted him. Though, he wasn't sure if he had actually been affected by the situation because of the screaming, or if hadn't nearly as awful as he had perceived because he had associated the screaming with the physical pain of Irene squeezing his hand in a death grip. (He suspected it was the former, vs. the latter.)

Irene had started pacing the room, starting to walk through the contractions. Sherlock could only really support her emotionally. "How are you doing?" he asked her hesitantly.

She let out a shaky breath and leaned over the bed and let out a soft groan. Sherlock stood up and walked up behind her, putting his hands on her back. Her distress was again distressing him, and in a wave of instincts, he tried to comfort her. Awkwardly, he started rubbing her lower back in the hopes of easing her discomfort. Irene drew in another breath and exhaled deeply, humming in mild contentment.

Eventually, she stood up from the bed and resumed her pacing. She kept pacing the room, breathing in the way that her doctor had suggested. She was handling the contractions better than she had when she delivered Adele. Sherlock was braced for when the contractions intensified and Irene became unbearably distressed. He sat on the bed and sometimes paced with her. It went unsaid, but they were both very anxious about the arrival of the new child.

Sherlock's anxieties resided primarily in whether or not the new child would bear any semblance to Adele. He didn't want the infant to be like Adele. He just wanted Adele to be one thing and this new infant to be another. Even if the baby was a boy, if he bore any semblance to Adele, Sherlock didn't know if he would know how to handle it.

Statistically speaking, given the genetic make up that the children would have from its parents made it likely that he or she would have dark hair and a fair complexion. The homogeneity of the genetic makeup of the nearly cooked infant left very little wiggle room for physical appearance differences. Despite this, Sherlock was excited about what might come into the world in—for Irene's sake—the next few hours.

When the pain became too much for Irene, she requested an epidural. She was still far away from delivering, so they were hoping that the epidural would help quiet the pain down. He held her hand as they inserted the catheter into her back, trying not to let out a hiss of pain when she squeezed his hand too tightly as the needle went into her back.

As time went on, he became more and more anxious. His nervous tics went into full swing, and Irene became irritated. "Sherlock, sit down!" she hissed from the bed.

"I can't!"

"Try. You're making me nervous just watching you."

He sat down at the foot of the bed and sighed. "How much longer?" he asked her.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Can't you do anything to… you know… speed things up?"

"Believe me, if I could, I would have done so hours ago," she assured him.

He busied himself by focusing solely on the monitor showing the vital stats of Irene and the baby. Irene watched as he calculated the numbers, finding patterns in everything. "We haven't discussed names for the baby," she realized.

Sherlock remained trapped in his own world until she leaned forward and poked him, bringing him out of his reverie. "Sorry?" he hummed.

"We haven't discussed names."

"Oh."

"Thoughts?"

"Pertaining to?"

"Names for your offspring," she sighed.

"Oh… um… no. No preference."

"That's ridiculous."

"How?"

"You honestly have no preference for what your child is named?"

"It's your child too."

"Right, but certainly you have some ideas for names."

"We went through this when Adele was born. You didn't like the name I suggested."

"Aveline?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't actually mind naming the baby Aveline if it's a girl."

"Really? What changed?"

"I'm not sure. I guess it's just grown on me."

He hummed in reply. Irene sighed. "That's it? A hum?"

"Irene, I have an unusual name. I don't do names. That's your area."

"Fine then. For a boy, I propose that we name him Archibald Xavier."

"No."

"Ah, so you do have a preference," she laughed.

"That is a terrible name."

"I don't know… Archie would be a cute nickname."

"Julian or Thomas. Something normal."

"Julian or Thomas?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay?" he echoed questioningly.

"Yes. Julian Thomas Jenkins. That's not a bad name."

"John will be disappointed," he laughed.

"Julian Thomas Hamish Jenkins," Irene corrected.

"Mummy will be pleased with the number of names," Sherlock informed Irene. "Insisted on giving us an obscene amount of names."

"I've never heard your full name," Irene told him.

"And with good reason," he answered stiffly. "So… Aveline for a girl?"

"Nah-ah-ah… you're not getting out of this one."

"I've never heard your real name," Sherlock countered.

Irene's face fell. "Fine. You got me there."

"Aveline what? What goes with Aveline?"

"Something elegant."

"Well, that narrows it down," he laughed.

Irene didn't laugh along with him. Instead, her brow furrowed and her eyes were filled with fear. "Sherlock… can you go get a doctor?" she murmured. "The contractions are starting to feel different."

He nodded and sprinted out of the room, bringing back a doctor who confirmed that it was go-time for Irene's delivery. Before Irene began pushing, she glanced over at Sherlock, who appeared to be more frightened than she was. "I'm fine. You're fine. We'll be fine," she assured him as she brought him down closer to her and kissed him.

"I know. I'm just bracing for the inevitable screaming that you're going to succumb to in a matter of minutes."

Sherlock gave her a sly smile and she batted at him. But, he was mostly correct about that assumption. The only thing he was wrong about was that it wasn't a matter of minutes; it was only one minute, perhaps not even that long.

The delivery took longer than Sherlock remembered Adele's taking. Irene was louder this time; taking the opportunity to be abusive towards Sherlock in her yelling. Her grip was cutting off circulation to his fingers, but he knew better than to tell her this. This was the time to stand by her and be supportive.

But, at a certain extent, he needed to regain circulation in his hand. Just when it seemed like Irene had been pushing for hours (in actuality, it had only been half an hour of pushing), the doctor announced that he could see a head. This time, Sherlock was prepared. He was not going to make the same foolhardy mistake of watching from the doctor's perspective. It had taken him almost a year and a half before he was comfortable resuming sexual activity with Irene after Adele's birth. And given the habit they had fallen into, he wasn't sure if he could put himself in that position again.

Another five minutes passed and the doctor announced that the baby was mostly delivered. Only one more push and the baby would be out. Sherlock deemed it was now safe to have a look.

As soon as he first caught glimpse of the child, seeing only a full head of hair, he physically separated himself from the bed, stepping back and drawing in a sharp breath. Irene's eyes briefly tracked him, but she let out a loud yell as she gave the final push that brought the child completely into the world. The doctor caught the small body, doing a visual examination to make sure everything was in order.

"It's a girl!" he announced as he glanced up at the new parents.

He only heard the echoing of cries. The world dulled to his senses as he fell into a haze. In the fog, Sherlock cut the cord and then slipped out of the room as Irene took the little girl into her arms, crying tears of joy as she met her daughter for the first time. He hurried down the corridor, to a quiet hallway that had been deserted. It was far from the maternity ward, down by the special care unit as not to draw attention to his crying.

He sank down and let out a sob. The singular sob made way for subsequent sobs that shook his entire body as he released two years of grief, expressing the complete and debilitating anger, despair, and confusion that he had buried for two years. Another daughter… another girl that he couldn't absolutely certify that he would protect no matter what. Another little girl to break every notion Sherlock had had of the world. Another person to potentially lose.

It wasn't like this was new information; this had been present since the day they found out about the baby. But now that she was in the world, away from Irene, this reality hit Sherlock right in the gut, cutting him down, sending him to his knees to preemptively beg for mercy on his daughter's behalf. If there was ever a time that Sherlock hoped there was a god, it was now.

A nurse came by and upon hearing Sherlock, she paused. "Sir, are you all right?" she asked him.

He looked up at her, his eyes swollen and red. "It's a girl. I have another daughter," he hiccupped.

"Did you want a boy?" the nurse asked, taken aback.

Sherlock hesitated. "No. No… she's perfect. Absolutely perfect… it's just…" his voice faltered.

"It's just what?"

"My wife and I had another daughter. She was killed."

The nurse's face fell. "Oh… love, I'm sorry."

"And now we have another one, who is just as perfect as Adele. Adele was the first one's name, though I never called her that. To me, she was Kitty. And now we have another one. And I have no idea how to manage," he sobbed, in the most candid manner he had ever expressed emotion in.

The nurse held out her hand to help him up. "I'm going to take you to a room where you'll have more privacy," she explained.

Sherlock stood up and followed her, wiping his eyes as he went. He sat down in one of the chairs in the room, staring at the wall until the nurse closed the door behind her as she left. It was only then that he resumed his crying. He hadn't realized just how much he actually missed Adele. He had turned off the switch to any emotions regarding his eldest daughter long ago, convincing himself that his adoration of his daughter had died with her. This had been the lie that he had been able to tell himself for two years, and now, it was simply impossible to string the lie along.

The person whom he loved most had just effectively proven to him again that he was capable of love. He had remained so adamant that he couldn't because love meant pain. Love meant extraordinary happiness and the gravest of sorrows. Love, in its consistencies, was the most inconsistent component of humanity and Sherlock hated inconsistence.

Irene was certainly going to give him hell for running out on them only moments after the baby's birth. He knew that he could explain what had happened to Irene, knowing that if he told her the truth, she would understand and probably express a similar sentiment. If John and Mary caught drift of what had happened after the birth, John might give him even more hell but Sherlock would not offer him the same explanation. John and Mary were never to know about Adele. Sherlock could only manage being vulnerable to one person and one person only: Irene.

It took him five minutes to regain his composure before he walked back to the room where Irene was. The realization that he had no idea what his daughter looked like, aside from the fact that she had a lot of hair and was small, hit him as he approached the door to the room. As he peered his head in, he saw a few nurses tending to Irene, who remained blissfully unaware to their presence. He smiled.

Cautiously, Sherlock approached the bed. The baby had been wrapped up in a pink blanket and was nestled comfortably in her mother's arms, her light blue eyes transfixed on Irene. She had a lot of very curly brown hair piled onto her little head. Her cheeks were splotchy and red, tearstained from her first cry. Yes, she was perfect.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into Irene's ear as he bent over the bed and kissed her on the forehead.

Irene glanced up at him and nodded quietly. "You've been crying," she observed.

He inhaled and gave a slight nod. "I'm fine now."

She examined his face and smiled sadly. "Do you want to hold her?" she asked.

"Not yet. I'm not ready to hold her yet," Sherlock admitted.

"Okay."

Twenty minutes later, he reached out and touched his daughter's hand. "She's bigger than Adele," he mused.

"Oh, I know," Irene laughed tiredly.

"Ah… right," he replied as he glanced up to look into her exhausted eyes.

"Do you want to hold her now?"

"Sure. You need to sleep."

Irene nodded as she helped transfer the little bundle into Sherlock's arms. "Remember to support her head…"

"Irene…" he answered flatly.

"Sorry. Old habits die hard."

Sherlock looked at her pointedly before he turned his attention down to the baby, who was asleep. He started to cry again, but this time, he wasn't sure if it was because he was happy or sad. They were bittersweet tears, he supposed.

He sat down in the chair next to the bed, watching the baby sleep. John and Mary were due to arrive soon, so he took the opportunity to acquaint himself with the baby before they were disturbed. Yes, this was a bittersweet moment.