Consciousness dawned on Sherlock Holmes like a fiery sunrise after a lifetime of darkness. His eyes flickered open wearily, and the smallest rays of white light flooded the blackness he had slept under.
How long had he been like this?
The wounds in his leg and stomach pulsated as he became aware of himself again. His head was the weight of a thousand bricks. He couldn't have moved it even if he wanted to.
As his surroundings became clearer, he inhaled and registered the pungent odors of saline solutions and sanitizing sprays. The scratchy hospital sheets greeted him with their stark discomfort. He gingerly raised a hand and rubbed his eyes.
"On prosnulsya!" someone beside him hissed. He heard a swift rustling of a cloak and turned in time to see the speaker flee the room in the whirl of a white medical uniform. Sherlock's Russian was rudimentary, but he knew prosnulsya meant "awake."
"On prosnulsya!" the voice cried, louder this time out in the hall. "On prosnulsya! On prosnulsya!"
His face bathed in the bright morning light, Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to rest. His head pounded and his stomach was demanding sustenance, but the remembrance of past events soothed him and painted a smile on his face.
"Sherlock!"
It was John, bright-eyed and sporting the grandest smile Sherlock had seen on his face in the last few months. The doctor was standing with his arms crossed in the doorway, studying the detective with satisfied amusement.
"You're finally awake then?" he asked, laughter threatening to emerge in the back of his throat.
He allowed himself a small laugh. His head ached whenever he so much as made a noise. But he went on: "How long has it been, John?"
"Four days. The doctors were nervous you wouldn't pull through. But I mean, after everything you've been through, a couple punctures surely couldn't have kept you down for long. I was right, wasn't I?" he asked, laughing through his nose.
"I'm glad you were," Sherlock managed to say, his eyes still adjusting to luminous reality. His head still pounded, but that persistent, profound gratitude for existence kept him conscious.
"You did it, Sherlock," John exulted. "Saved the whole of London. And finally put to death the spider we've been playing with for the last what . . . five years?"
"Is he really dead, John? They checked . . . to be certain?"
"Yep," John replied, beaming yet somehow sober. "No movements, no pulse. They've taken his remains into the morgue. And they locked it to be sure. He's dead, Sherlock. It's over. Like you told me: it's done."
"Yes . . ." Sherlock muttered under his weary breath. "It's done."
"Not to be pretentious, but I did say I knew it would end this way," a voice said from behind John. Sherlock's pale face went a touch pink, and he felt his thoughts firing rapidly in his head. Her voice.
John turned abruptly, his face jolly with the flush of recognition, and he made a space for the detective's wife to enter the room. He winked at Sherlock before departing through the open door.
Sherlock felt his vision clouding again as Irene Adler entered the room, newborn bundle in her arms and chestnut tresses falling over her shoulders in frizzy waves. Her face was red with the animation of life, her blue eyes shone, and her thin lips were curved in an unpainted smile.
"You're awake," she said. "On prosnulsya," she repeated, in Russian. She sat in the chair at his bedside, never taking her eyes off him.
"It would seem so," he said, gently, not sure of how to begin or what he ought to say. So much—too much—had happened since their last horrific meeting, and the water standing in her eyes told him she didn't know how to begin either. He breathed in through his mouth to fill the gap of silence.
"But didn't I?" she asked, mouth curling into that girlish simper.
"Didn't you what?" he asked. His brow furrowed.
"Didn't I say I knew it was going to end this way?" she asked again, the age-old admiration returning to her eyes.
"You did," he whispered. "And you were right," he added, laughing slightly and fingering the corner of a scratchy sheet.
A gentle snore and infantile grunt turned his attention to the bunch of blankets in Irene's arms. Sherlock strained as he pushed himself up to get a better look at the child. His small nose was already clearly sporting a noble curve, and his mouth had the same lines as his own. Watching the baby breathe felt sacred. Little Hamish snored, letting out the delicate mm of newborn infants. It could've put Sherlock to sleep if he'd let it.
"He sleeps a surprising amount of the time," she said, smiling into the boy's sleeping face. She kissed his forehead. "Maybe it's because he finds everything boring and unworthy of his time . . . like someone else I know," she teased, looking up at Sherlock. He felt her gaze, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from his son's peaceful sleep.
"Do you want to hold him again?" she asked, breaking the delicate silence.
"Could . . . could I?"
She laughed under her breath and grinned. "Of course."
"They told me you spent three hours with him before they took him for the night," she went on as she placed the boy in his father's arms. Sherlock gathered him up to himself and stared down at this pure, untouched, unadulterated humanity. He put his nose to the child's forehead, again drinking in that earthy, watery infant smell.
After everything, he held such a reward in his hands.
"What happened to you?" he suddenly asked, remembering the urgency with which the doctors had rushed her from the room after the delivery. That question had haunted his mind since she'd been ripped from him for the second, unholy time. She looked at the floor at hearing the question. Her eyes grew round with an unfocused haze.
"My uterus tore," she finally replied. His lips parted in an inaudible retort. "It's a common complication, really," she continued. "I simply . . . lost too much blood. My body went into shock. When I woke up, they told me I had almost died."
"I thought you were. Going to die, that is," Sherlock admitted. She said nothing. He felt his face grow warm, but for once he simply swallowed.
"Well . . . I very clearly didn't," she whispered, looking out the window and determined not to meet his gaze. More than anything he wanted her to look at him. He had so much more to say. Look at me, he thought, hoping he could will her into turning her head.
"That terrified me," he finally said.
"What did?" she asked, her exhausted eyes finding his own.
"Thinking you were going to die," he said. She took a small breath, apparently trying not to look away again.
"I didn't want you to die," he continued. "I've never wanted someone to not die as much as I didn't want you to," he let himself admit. Her mouth fell open in silent shock. One tear slid down her thin cheek.
He looked away this time, embarrassed of himself, and studied the newborn face below his own.
"I had him, of course," Sherlock said, watching the baby's lip quibble. "I had him, and that truly was . . . the greatest comfort." He sighed, looking up to meet her gaze once more.
"But I didn't have you."
"Sherlock—"
"I was afraid I wouldn't ever—"
"Please—"
"No, I have to say this. Please, would you let me say this?" he asked, almost desperate. The water standing in his eyes had started dribbling in a few solitary drops onto his pale face. She nodded vigorously, hands clasped above her mouth, and tears streaming down her own cheeks in torrents now.
"I was going to tell you when I first found you, before everything happened. But there wasn't time enough. So let me say it now. And I'll say it plainly: I love you." (At this, she began to truly cry) "I love you, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, like I've never loved anyone in my whole, wretched life. And if a thousand miles ever wrestled its way between us again, I would die walking to you before I gave myself up to loneliness."
"Oh, Sherlock," she said through her tears, her mouth covered through his entire speech. "And I you," she replied, coming to the bedside and standing over him. She smoothed back his hair from his forehead, kissing him between the eyebrows. He relished the feel of her so close to him once more. He grasped one of her hands, and she smoothed his over as he grasped it.
"Then you were as lonely as I was?" she asked, glancing timidly at him through her odd assembly of emotions.
"I'd never thought I'd say it aloud, but yes. I was," he conceded.
"But did you ever . . . ever once doubt me, darling? Or my words? Did you ever blame me for my departure?" she asked as she dried her eyes. At this, he smiled at her in all her feminine glory.
"No. Not once," he replied, his voice giving way to the emotions within. She lay a gentle hand on his cheek.
"I'm glad of it," she said, smirking as she was always wont to do. "Then you do realize it was my doing that saved both your life and our child's?" she asked, the spark of coquetry returning to her voice. He chuckled inside himself.
"I do," he said, as she held his chin in her hands.
He closed his eyes as she leaned in to kiss him, pulling one of his hands gently away from Hamish and cradling the side of her face. She kissed him once, twice, again and again. He stopped counting after the third and let his hand find his way to her waist.
"Admit it. You've missed this," she said as she pulled away.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think I ever denied anything," Sherlock replied with some cheek, kissing her once more. She laughed at that, and his pulse skipped in jubilation. How he'd missed that sultry laugh.
An infant's sputter and sneeze broke their kiss prematurely. The baby began to stir in Sherlock's arms, and he repositioned his hold on the child. Irene looked down at Hamish, who had his little mouth open in a half cry, half yawn. Her lips curved into a tender grin as his blue eyes began to blink, fighting to open. Sherlock smiled into the round face of the boy that was looking up into his father's eyes.
"He's . . . he's a beautiful child," he mused, kissing Hamish's head once more. He was getting used to this at an alarmingly rapid pace. Fatherhood suited him. He truly was a changed man.
"He already has your black hair," Irene noted, running a hand through her husband's locks. Seeing as his head had been deprived of the sensation for many previous months, it was relatively euphoric.
"But I think he has your nose," Sherlock also observed, gently rocking the child as he began to squirm.
"It's too early to tell that, dear. But I think it's already quite clear that he's inherited your importunate disposition," she teased, biting her lip and sporting a playfully indignant glance.
"How so?" Sherlock demanded, almost offended.
"Well, do allow me to think a bit. He's kept me up the last two nights, won't let me sleep with all his fussing, and grows cross when I don't provide what he needs right when he needs it."
"I fail to see how that resembles myself," Sherlock huffed, thinking of how insolent the woman could be and how he also might possibly be in denial. She blew out a quaint laugh and ran a hand through his hair one last time for good measure.
"Oh, do let me take him, darling," she offered, holding out her hands. "He'll be ready for feeding in a few minutes, I'd expect. That's why he's waking up."
"Is that all he does? Eat and sleep?" Sherlock asked.
"And defecate, of course," she replied, gathering the infant up into her arms and cradling him like a natural. Watching her left him no choice but to dote.
"Ah, of course," Sherlock whispered under his breath, laughing as she carried him to the chair at the window to nurse him.
"But he is an infant, you know. To his credit, he also does a great deal of staring. And finger holding, when one spends enough time with him. He likes the attention. It reminds me of someone."
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes and lying back on the pillow, refusing the urge to begin a full-scale battle of the quips. His headache wouldn't allow him at the moment.
"Had a good talk, did you?" John asked as he walked in.
Clearly, he's been eavesdropping, Sherlock thought to himself.
"Dropping eaves, were we, Doctor Watson?" Irene asked, sticking up an eyebrow at him as he sauntered in.
"Dropping eaves? Is that even a thing?" he parried, and Sherlock felt a spontaneous rush of exultance at hearing his friend's healthy, recovered, and perturbed voice once more.
"It was 'a thing' in Lord of the Rings, if I remember correctly," Irene replied, fussing with Hamish's many blankets as he began to have a proper cry.
"No, Samwise Gamgee had no proper understanding of the word eavesdrop," Sherlock corrected. "When he said he 'hadn't been dropping no eaves,' he was misunderstanding the definition of the word. So no, John: dropping eaves is not a thing."
"Well pardon me for saying it," Irene huffed, pulling a bag out from under the chair. "This little one will get plenty of Lord of the Rings if I have my way," she said. "But first he has to eat, doesn't he?" she asked, playing with the baby's lower lip and chin.
"And Dr. Seuss," Sherlock added, taking the matter entirely serious. "He'll have to have plenty of A.A. Milne. C.S. Lewis will be another worthy exception to the boy's repertoire. And, of course, only Bach or Vivaldi when he sleeps. It's fantastic for the infant brain," Sherlock added, his eyes still closed.
"And none of that ghastly Peppa Pig nonsense," he added, scoffing and practically vomiting the words out of his mouth.
"How'd you even know Peppa Pig?" John demanded, his face bright orange. "That's Rosie's favorite show. Mary and I used to watch it with her."
"How would he not know?" Irene butted in, her face alight with enthusiasm. "Only the best television shows for Sherlock Holmes's children," she said.
"Yeah, but come on. Really? No Peppa Pig?" John asked, clearly uncomfortable at Sherlock's disapproval of the show.
"Children are intelligent creatures, Doctor Watson. They ought to be treated as such," Irene protested. Sherlock grinned at hearing her agree with his adamant statements.
"They'll never learn to rely on their own intellects if they have a pig telling them how the world works. I quite agree," Sherlock added, trying to calm himself.
"Never said you didn't have high standards," John groaned.
"I should hope not," Irene commented.
John was almost pouting, still holding his bad arm and looking perturbed, glum, and sour. Sherlock hoped he'd rethink Rosie's television time.
She'd thrown a nursing blanket over herself and had begun to nurse. John noticed this fact with an uncomfortable flourish of the eyebrows.
"Feeding time, is it?" he asked. "Do I need to . . . step outside? Make you more comfortable?" Sherlock huffed a laugh and interlocked his fingers behind his head.
"Who's uncomfortable?" Irene teased, ruffling John's feathers like a tormenting little sister. "I'm not if you're not," she consoled.
He loosened only just and let out an awkward laugh, sidling instead toward the chair at Sherlock's bedside. Irene concerned herself with the child, not allowing timid doctors to dissuade her motherly instincts.
"Is this it then?" John asked, hands under his chin. Sherlock eyed him quizzically.
"Is this what?" he asked in tandem with his wife. They'd spoken at the same time without even realizing. His expression was the complete opposite of a frown.
"I just mean . . . I wonder . . . when did you two get like this?" the doctor went on, making nondescript gestures in the air to try and communicate his meaning.
"Like what?" Irene returned, asking Sherlock's next question before it had left his mouth.
"Like this!" John exclaimed, signaling toward her as though her answer was an example. "You're nursing a bloody baby, Sherlock's not objecting to fatherhood, there's more here than just Mr. Holmes and Miss Adler. I mean, am I wrong? Am I missing something or is there more to you both than there was a year ago? You're just so . . . so . . ."
John's forehead was all scrunched up, and he was struggling to find the right word.
"So what?" Sherlock asked, almost at the point of bursting.
"Emotional," John finished. "That's it! You're so sodding emotional. I mean, you're practically children sometimes," he added, chuckling hysterically. "No offense, but . . . the adults in your life still have no clue what to do with you two," John teased, scratching his head.
"Do those adults include you?" Sherlock asked, feigning offense.
"Oh God," John cried out, laughing even harder as he doubled over and held his stomach. Sherlock found himself laughing an equally vigorous, throaty guffaw, and Irene was laughing to herself by the window. Sherlock caught her eye as John giggled himself hoarse, and her soft reassuring glance confirmed his darkest suspicion.
They were children: ridiculous, tumultuous, emotional children addled about by their commitment to the resolute. Such commitments they could never keep and had utterly broken. The chemical defect had done its work, and there was no stopping it. Nor was there a desire to see it stopped. Disadvantage or no, love swept over Sherlock, and there was no rug to sweep it under this time.
"You raise an interesting point," Sherlock concluded, resting his eyes and laying back on the pillow. "I see no other explanation," he admitted. "We are—quite simply—two grossly emotional children. But I'm not sure I know what to do with myself either."
Irene laughed out loud and proclaimed with an air of triumph: "To the emotional children!"