A/N: My beautiful friends, I am so sorry for keeping you waiting so long for an update! It's been far too long. But alas, here we are at last. Thank you for those of you who are still here awaiting a new chapter. I wouldn't be here without you.

I love you all and I hope you thoroughly enjoy this next chapter. I rewrote it a few times to be sure I got it just right. Hope you love this! :)

"Tolkat, rodnaya, tolkat!"

Push, dear girl, push.

It had been a mere hour since they had arrived at the hospital, and Irene's labor had accelerated at an alarmingly rapid pace.

Every breath, every movement, every second in that hospital room, she breathed in the pain. Her hips were going to come apart. Skin was on the brink of tearing if it hadn't already. Everything was stretching, ripping. She could feel the weight of the child falling down, down, down . . .

It was slow. So slow . . .

Would the pain alone kill her?

"AH!" she cried out in one single unexpected gasp as the child shifted still lower. She sucked in her breath and pushed, gripping the sides of the bed. Her knuckles were white.

"Ohhhh . . . God help me!" she moaned, throwing her head back and lying on the pillow.

"Keep breathing, keep breathing," a nurse ordered.

Irene hardly heard her as she sucked in a lungful of air and groaned again. Her glossy forehead was mopped with sweat and her body was on fire. She gasped for breath after each push.

"Your breath is the little one's air. You have to keep breathing. You need to breathe," another nurse reminded her, glancing nervously at the child's vital signs on the monitor. His heartrate had dropped a few beats, and he was still losing blood from a wound in his foot.

Irene's mouth lay ajar. There was too much pain. It needed to be embraced, dealt with, mastered, accepted. There was no time to breathe.

This pain is mine. This pain is mine. With each inhale she threw her body into the contraction, breathing and moaning. Breathing and forgetting to breathe.

"Breathe, breathe, remember to breathe."

And she would gasp for air and let the pain fill her before returning to the arduous task of pushing a living creature into the world.

The doctors were monitoring the child's heartrate, and the EKG made its constant beep beep beep. The baby still lived.

She forced her eyes open, determination filling her veins with an icy rage. She would not fail. With every contraction, every surge of pain, every paralyzing wave of labor, her fists balled up at her sides, her lips tightened, and she pushed.

And it wasn't just the pain in her birth canal. It was the two bullet wounds still throbbing on her stomach and the two exit wounds on her back. They pulsated with a cruel fiery sensation, almost to the same rhythm of her contractions. The sound of all the pain was far too loud.

Sherlock was there, pacing back and forth with his head down. His eyes were clouded, and when he finally looked at her, she saw agitated lines covering his face. His ever-taut lips were parted. His hands hung uselessly at their sides, and for the first time she recognized fear in his eyes.

He was afraid for her.

Another wave racked her body, and she felt the impulse to lean forward, letting out a cry as she did so. Then she held out a hand. A thin, bony hand. For one small instant, she opened her eyes, parted lips trembling from the grueling pain, and looked at him. Her watery eyes silently called to him, and the opened hand beckoned.

Please.

His face remained frozen with that same agitation. But then he slowed, stopped, and sat, taking her hand in his. Her hand was in his iron grip, as though she were his most precious possession. In that moment she liked to think that she was.

Yet another contraction.

"He's nearly out! Push!" came the frustrated exclamation of the head obstetrician.

Irene leaned forward again, and Sherlock put his free hand on her back, pressing her palm with the other gently. She could hear him muttering a solitary phrase into her ear as he held her there.

"This will be over. It's almost over."

She didn't scream, but she could have. She groaned through gritted teeth, her eyes leaking small tears as she pushed with every bit of life left in her.

"This too shall pass," Sherlock said, this time smoothing strands of hair back from her sweaty brow. She pressed her forehead into his hand and gave one last push.

"This too shall pass."

And then it did.

All at once she felt the child slip from inside of her.

Wet and screaming, he fell into the world. The infant's sharp cry tore through the pain, tore through the tears, tore through the memory of heart-stopping labor. Now, as she cried, she laughed. The obstetrician laughed as she held the naked, screaming newborn, covered his glistening body in a cloth, and raised him up for the parents to see.

"Oh my God, he's alive!" Irene cried, sobbing ridiculously, shamelessly. "He's alive!"

She turned to look at her husband. What a study his face was! His mouth was open, he was breathing as though he had been the one to deliver the child, and his eyes glimmered with the light of tears. As the child emerged into the world, bloody and crying, he was on his feet, his hand to his mouth, stifling a sob in his throat. Irene clutched his other hand, her own eyes spilling over with tears.

He looked at her.

For one, long moment, all he did was stare. Bewildered, wild, eyes shining with nothing but admiration and relief. Two watery streaks ran down his pale cheeks, and in that moment, she knew how really and truly he loved her.

She smiled as Sherlock turned to the child, hovering over the obstetrician who held his little, screaming body.

"Can I—" Irene asked suddenly, hands open. Her eyes rested on her son's wailing face. Every inch of her longed to soothe him, kiss his head, hold him to herself. But from the look on the obstetrician's face, she already saw that she would have to wait.

"We have to bandage the foot," the women replied, solemnly. "The gunshot . . . it . . ." she stopped, biting her lip. Irene paled.

"Madam," the nurse continued, "your little one's lost two of his toes on his left foot, I'm afraid. He's losing blood through the wounds. We'll have to use stitches, but not too many. The wounds aren't large, but they do need to be sewn. He's a very lucky boy to have come away without any other injuries. It won't be very long. You'll be able to hold him in no time. We just have to stop this bleeding. Close the wounds."

"Katya, give me a hand," she then ordered one of the nurses, cooing softly to the infant and lying him on the prepared bed.

"Sherlock—" Irene whispered, never taking her eyes off the child.

The obstetrician's voice interrupted any possibility of reply.

"Get me Doctor Oretsev and get him in here now. We need to seal up these wounds before this little man loses anymore blood," she hissed. "Go!" The nurse tore out of the room in search of the doctor.

"Sherlock—" Irene said again, her eyes darting from her child to her husband. "Go with him," she urged, still heaving vigorously. "Stay with him."

He put a hand to her head and smoothed back her hair again. She sighed laboriously. His eyes wouldn't leave her face, and she breathed a light laugh when she read concern on his features.

"I'm alright," she said, cupping his face in her hands. "I'm alright. Just please . . . stay with him," she pleaded, taking his hands and squeezing them gently.

He pressed a prolonged kiss to her forehead.

"I will," was the whispered reply.

"How far…" she began, inhaling shakily.

"How far what?" he asked.

"How far we've gone," she said, a light smile playing on her face. "The dominatrix and the damaged, delusional detective. What are we now? Can you even tell me what we are now? Because I'm not sure…I'm not sure I even know."

"Neither do I," he admitted. "But I suppose having a biological child means I'm technically a father?" he asked, quizzically.

At this, she couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes," she cried, tears spilling out of her eyes. "Oh, God, yes!"

"And I'm a mother," she said, pensively, as the thought sprang to her mind. "I'm a mother."

Hamish began to cry again from the other corner of the room where the nurses were preparing him for his procedure. Irene swallowed. Sherlock's jaw tightened. In an instant, he had taken three strides across the room to the child's bedside.

Through her weary eyes she could just glimpse him hovering over their infant son.

Then she fell back against the pillow and shut her eyes, chest heaving. Her head suddenly felt light, and the joy of birth was beginning to wane. She wanted to sleep. The afterbirth needed delivering, and she saw doctors already hovering over her, sanitizing the bullet wounds on her stomach and back. Her mind was loud. Everything was loud. Each inhale was becoming a struggle, and exhales made her lips quake. Pain gripped her stomach, and a soft cry flew from her parted mouth.

When would this end?

Then her bed was moving—floating out of the room, doctors around her, something being strapped onto her face.

"Pardon me, but what's happening? Where are you taking her?"

Sherlock's voice. Cracked. Strained.

Then a doctor's voice—agitated and somehow afraid. What was he saying?

". . . body's going into shock . . . the wounds . . . we have to do it now . . ."

A jolt.

Let me hold the child, she thought, over and over. That was all she wanted. Let me hold him. Oh, to clasp her son in her arms and fall asleep with him on her chest. To feel Sherlock's warm hand on her brow. To kiss the infant's newborn skin.

Where is he?

She was in a hallway. Eerie lights came and went over the ceiling. She shut her eyes, dreaming, seeing a boy's face, a husband's smile, her own laugh.

All at once, the bed stopped. She was in a gray, windowless room that smelled of saline and sanitizer. Something was flying up into her throat from her stomach, which churned like the insides of a caldron. A wet, slippery something fell out of her birth canal again. The afterbirth.

She coughed into her oxygen mask. Someone took it off. She vomited.

Oh, God. Oh, dear God. Was this dying?

People were shouting, utensils were clanking, needles were pricking her stomach and back. This wasn't dying. This was shock.

Then let me die.

Her lips were shaking. Her teeth chattered. Every inch of her body shivered.

Cold hands gripping her arms and legs made her shake more. Her body was restricted. Her brain was in shambles. Her head spun relentlessly. She wondered if it would come off.

And then it was over.

She felt her entire body cease movement. Sweet sleep came. It swept over her like a wooly blanket. Like mother's wooly blanket.

"It's alright, darling," Mummy was saying. She kissed Irene's forehead as she cried in her lap. "Don't cry, Irene. Don't cry."

"But mother," she found herself crying, "I am lost! Lost to him," she spoke, in between sobs.

"Don't cry, Irene. Remember the stories."

"What stories? What stories?" her voice was still mad and deranged like her thoughts. Her head spoke for her. Her lips remained motionless.

"The detective stories. Don't you remember?"

And Irene Adler remembered every story she'd read, every story she'd watched, and every story she'd been a character in.

Peace took her. She fell asleep.

…

Seeing her fall back senselessly on the pillow, Sherlock gave a start. She wasn't looking at him anymore. Her blue eyes had shut. His head felt tense as he watched her there, lying limp. Her breathing was labored. Each breath shook her body. The air she breathed was laden with exhaustion.

Then Hamish's cries cut through his thoughts, and he turned to face the newborn child. The woman on the hospital bed, the ache in his brain, the surge of emotions in his chest—it was all for this little creature.

"Take hold of the bed," someone snapped behind him. He turned. An oxygen mask was on Irene's face. Her left arm dangled senselessly off the bed. The sound of her pulse on the EKG still pinged every second, but her face looked beaten and dead.

They began to push the bed toward the open door before Sherlock laid a trembling hand on a doctor's arm.

"Pardon me, but where exactly are you taking her?" he asked, his eyes lingering on his wife's face without even looking at the doctor. Look at me, he wanted to say. Look at me. Look at me, Miss Adler, look at me.

"Her body is going into shock," the doctor replied. "It already has. The wounds on her stomach and back were enough to cause significant blood loss. Combined with the delivery, her body is overwhelmed. She'll be sedated and we may have to operate depending on internal matters. But we have to do it now. There's really no time. Please, if you'd just—"

Sherlock tried to breathe evenly. He bit the inside of his mouth. Hamish let out a cry at the other end of the room. He was physically torn in two different directions. He swallowed.

"Go. Take her. Quickly," he replied, not meeting the doctor's gaze and waving him out the door. He looked at her pale face once more before they took her. He inhaled shakily, putting a hand over his mouth.

Nausea swept over him at a concerning speed. If he vomited, he would surely vomit all his internal organs. Everything was moving inside him. A drum beat inside his head, cracking his skull.

Hamish's faint cries continued. Sherlock looked at the infant on the little bed. Tears welled up in his eyes as he made it to the bedside in a few strides.

Taking one of the small, warm hands in his own, Sherlock curled the infant's outstretched hand around one of his fingers. The baby's grip tightened around his finger impulsively. It sent a spasm of warmth shooting up Sherlock's shaking arm. His heart pounded in the back of his throat. He smiled without even meaning to, and his eyes lingered on the little fist clinging to his finger.

"Hello . . ." he managed, whispering onto the child's forehead. What was there to be said? How does one talk to a baby? Does a baby even wish to hear words?

But no sooner had the word left the father's mouth than the child's crying face softened a bit, and his almond shaped eyes began to open. His crying ceased, and he let out intermittent, almost frustrated huffs.

Those fresh blue eyes looked up into the light, then at the finger he held, and then at the man who had spoken. Sherlock stopped breathing without even meaning to. His gaze was wholly transfixed on the newborn face that studied him so intently. The detective smiled, planting a soft kiss on the child's forehead. A tear fell from his chin and settled on Hamish's newborn skin. Sherlock kissed it. The skin smelled of steam, afterbirth, and an undeniably earthy, human aroma. Warmth radiated from that little body. Still clinging to his father's finger, the baby let out a short, excited breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Sherlock felt another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

This was his son. His own son. The boy was dangerously small. His small chest rose and fell with a determined vigor. That mangled foot still kicked out with a hunger for life. Not to mention the child's hair. It was the inkiest, thickest black Sherlock had ever seen an infant capable of having.

It was him. A small him.

"You keep soothing him," came the voice of the obstetrician. Sherlock startled, remembering that he was not alone with his child.

Dr. Oretsev had arrived. Sherlock watched uneasily as he prepared a numbing cream and needles to stitch Hamish's mutilated, newborn foot. The obstetrician was eyeing Sherlock to make sure he'd understood his role in this, which he had. Without even having to be asked, the father clung to his son's little hands and intermittently kissed his head. Every so often, a tear fell on the baby's face.

The glint of the needle shone in the corner of his eye, and he saw Dr. Oretsev take the newborn foot in his weathered hand. Sherlock bent back to whisper in Hamish's ears.

"You're a strong boy, aren't you? A determined one. With hair like that, you'll have Holmesian intellect. And with eyes like those, you'll have your mother's spirit."

Where is your mother? He almost wanted to ask the infant. In that moment, the boy seemed wiser than he. Certainly calmer. Grief swung about in Sherlock's heart, lounging like a parasite, whispering fantasies that the child's mother was dead. He set his jaw.

Hamish blinked, his nose wrinkling. Dr. Oretsev was pulling the needle and thread through the skin. Sherlock saw the wound beginning to close.

"You'll be good for your mother, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, rubbing has thumb backwards and forwards across the baby's small hand compulsively.

"You'll be good for your mother."

His voice ceased without warning, and Sherlock coughed nondescriptly. He kept his eyes on the infant's face. The child watched him—held his father's gaze—with those gorgeous sea blue eyes.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, looking and whispering.

"Would you like to hold him, Mr. Holmes?"

Dr. Oretsev's voice cut through Sherlock's thoughts. He lifted his tear-stained face. Where Hamish's two biggest toes should have been on his left foot, there were seven black stitches. His mouth hung open for some time before he finally registered the question. He met the doctor's gaze with eyes that questioned whether he was being teased. Was the blanket about to be pulled out from under him again?

"Can I?"

"Of course."

Wrapping Hamish in a new hospital blanket covered in blue dancing bears, the obstetrician coddled him before placing him gently in his father's arms.

"His foot will heal nicely. After a week or two, the stitches can be taken out," Dr. Oretsev was saying.

But Sherlock heard none of it.

He held a gift. A gift of life.

It cooed. It cried. It kicked.

Hamish William Adler Holmes was alive, and his father only had ears for him. Feeling the warmth of a living bundle in his arms, the detective whispered to his son, heart swelling with fatherhood, and told the child stories of the mother he had yet to meet.