(Trigger warning for this chapter: Contains a miscarriage, which may be a very sensitive topic for some readers! If you are one of them, I am very sorry for your loss. My heart goes out to you.)

Hello hello! Alright, we're really rolling now. I finally found some direction with the rest of this story. If you're still with me, I thank you. If you're new, welcome! I hope you enjoy. Again, I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 15

"A person's a person, no matter how small." ~Dr. Seuss

Watson had only just gotten into bed when there was a fierce pounding on his bedroom door. Two weeks had passed since his illness, though he continued to have trouble sleeping. Still, he hurried to open the door before the offending noise could wake his daughter. He was greeted with the sight of a quite frantic Sherlock Holmes. "Watson! Thank Heavens you're awake! You must come quickly! Bring your bag."

The good doctor did not think to question him. There was something in his friend's dark eyes. Holmes was truly terrified, shaken to his very core. Seldom in their long years of friendship had Watson witnessed Holmes in such a state. He followed Holmes to his bedroom, where he found Irene curled up on the bed, her eyes closed tightly as she took deep, measured breaths. Salty tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Dear God!" Watson gasped, hurrying to her side. "What happened?"

"I-I'm not sure," Holmes barely managed to whisper, nearing a state of pure panic. "She awoke with an unbearable pain radiating from her middle. She would not allow me to fetch you until now."

Irene moaned , and Watson reached out to stroke her sweat dampened locks away from her pale face. "It's alright," he soothed, beginning to pull back the quilts to check her over, but Irene clutched them tightly about her slender frame. Watson opened his mouth to protest, but Irene gave him such a pleading, desperate look that the words died on his lips. She shook her head ever so slightly, her gaze drifting toward her husband.

Suddenly, Watson understood. "Holmes," he said gently, "I think it best if you waited outside."

Holmes scoffed. "Don't be ridic-"

"Please Holmes," Watson urged, knowing Irene would not concede to his help until Holmes left, and time was of the essence. "I'll need someone to watch over Mary while I tend to Irene."

Just when it seemed Holmes was going to argue, he sighed in defeat and nodded sadly, placing a kiss on his wife's forehead before leaving the room.

The solid door clicked shut, and Watson turned back to his patient. "Now, let's have a look."

When he drew the bed clothes back, Irene averted her gaze so she would not have to witness his reaction.

Watson felt his breath leave him. His heart stopped. There was so much blood. So very much blood. "Irene," he choked, "were you..."

"Yes, but I only just began to suspect. I still was not entirely sure, so I didn't tell him. Then tonight... John, I could not let him see..."

"No," he said with a soft smile, "you don't have to explain yourself to me. I understand. Don't worry, we'll fix you right up."

Holmes checked on Mary, and, determining she was in fact asleep and would not be waking any time soon, entered the parlor area. Moonlight streamed in through the open window, casting an eerie glow about the room. Holmes felt an all too familiar panic rising in his chest. With his wife lying ill in the next room, it seemed all the work he had done was for naught. The darkness had once again become his enemy. He quickly turned up a few lamps, banishing his foe to the farthest corners of the room. A trembling sigh passed over his lips. Splaying his finger out, he raked them through his hair. Pipe. He needed his pipe. Not knowing what was going on with Irene was driving him to the brink of insanity. Closer than he usually trod, at any rate. With shaking hands, he lit the tobacco, drawing in and releasing a stream of white smoke. It did little to sooth his nerves. Terrible though plagued his mind. Each time he closed his eyes he saw Irene's beautiful face twisted in pain. A strangled cry came from his bedchambers. The sudden, sharp sting of unbidden tears burned his eyes, and he began to pace. What if something happened to her? He couldn't lose her. Not again. This time it would surely kill him. He continued to pace, furiously puffing on his pipe. A chill began to seep into his bones and he knelt to start a fire, if only to have something to do. Once the warmth began to fill the room, Holmes resumed pacing. He'd likely wear a hole in the rug. He was desperate to be with his wife. Although, he reminded himself that even if he were, there was little he could do to help her, which was not much of a consolation at the moment. He simply had to trust Watson. Which he did. With his, and more importantly, Irene's life.
Holmes spun round on his heels when Watson finally emerged from the bedroom, his face very grave indeed. Holmes swallowed convulsively, placing his pipe on the mantle. "Well?"

The doctor met his friend's gaze and nodded solemnly, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. "She'll be alright."

Relief crashed over Holmes, nearly bringing him to his knees with the force of it. He briefly closed his yes, breathing deeply and allowing himself a moment to revel in the joyous knowledge that he would not be facing a long and remarkably lonely life without Irene by his side. However, upon opening his eyes once again, and realizing Watson's expression was no less grave, he frowned. "There's something else you're not telling me."

Both men stood in agonizing silence, and Watson was scarcely able to meet his gaze.

"John?"

Watson sighed deeply. "Holmes, she was… Irene was with child."

The detective raised a questioning eyebrow, "Was?"

"I'm afraid so," Watson endeavored to explain as gently as possible. "Her body was just too weak. Too… ravaged by her battle with tuberculosis. I'm sorry, Holmes. I'm afraid Irene will never be able to bear children."

Trembling hands clenched into fists, Holmes' fingernails biting into the calloused flesh of his palms. His chest heaved as anger, burning hot and all consuming, coursed through his veins. A terrible, heartbreaking scream ripped from his throat as he overturned a low table, it's contents scattering across the floor. The scream became a tortured sob as Holmes sank down in his chair. Mary's cry echoed throughout the flat, and though he was loathe to leave his friend, Watson quickly went to tend to his daughter.

When he returned from coaxing the little girl back to sleep, Holmes was still seated in his chair, his head in his hands. "It's his fault. He nearly killed her and now…" he broke off, choking back a sob.

Watson sat down heavily in the chair across from him, nodding in patient understanding. After examining Irene, there was no doubt in his mind it was Moriarty's poison that caused her frail state, and robbed her forever of the joys of motherhood.

"I- I never wanted children, John," Holmes admitted in a rare moment of sincerity, "not until dear little Mary entered our lives. And now to have my own child snatched so cruelly from me… all prospects of fatherhood gone…"

"I am sorry, Sherlock. Truly. You would have made an excellent father. After all, you were the only father Mary knew for the first few months of her life. Lord knows what would've happened to her, or to me, if not for you. I know your pain, old friend. Perhaps not exactly, for while I was fortunate enough to keep my precious daughter, I did lose my wife. In a way, I share your grief. It is never easy to lose something that means so much to you."

Hands steepled just beneath his nose, Holmes appeared to be lost in thought, until at last he said, "I once thought I'd lost Irene. To have her with me now as my wife… that alone is far more than I deserve."

Reaching out to his friend, Watson place his hand on Holmes' shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Go to her. She'll need you."

"No, dearest Watson. It is I who need her."

Holmes eased open the bedroom door and closed it softly behind him. Irene was once again lying on her side, her ocean colored eyes staring listlessly out the window. His stocking clad feet padded across the wood floor and he climbed into bed beside her. Holmes wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her close so her back was pressed against his chest.

"He told you?" she asked softly.

Resting his head in the delicate curve of her neck, he nodded. "Yes."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Oh, my darling," he sighed, "there is no need to apologize." His hand found hers, lightly tracing his fingers over her wedding ring. "You have already given me everything I could ever ask for." Irene rolled over in his arms so she was facing him. Holmes brushed a few tears from her eyes and placed a tender kiss to her lips. "I love you with all that I am."

A small smile alighted her breath-taking features. "And I love you." He kissed her again. They were quiet for a moment, wrapped in each others arms and their own thoughts when Irene suddenly said, "He deserves a name. He wasn't here long but he was ours."

Holmes leaned his forehead against hers. "I could not agree with you more, my darling," he whispered, a sadness entering his heart he knew he would carry with him for the rest of his days. But his wife was right. Giving their child a name would help the pain. "What is his name then?"

"Hamish," she said, her tears glistening like diamonds in the moonlight. "Hamish Mycroft Holmes."

"A most appropriate, distinguished name for our boy."

Tightening his arms around her, Holmes tucked her head beneath his chin. She buried her face against his chest, and he felt a few hot tears soak through his nightshirt. He placed a kiss to the top of her head and began to stroke her hair until she finally drifted off to sleep.

Watson sat in the parlor, knowing he'd not be able to fall back asleep. Puffing on his pipe, his thoughts drifted to his own daughter, all tucked in nice and warm in the next room. Though he missed his wife dearly, what Holmes had said was true. To have his daughter with him now was far more than he deserved.

Suddenly, he felt something wet on his upper lip. Setting his pipe down, he pulled his hand away to see blood on his fingers. A nose bleed then. The second one of the day. Pressing his kerchief to his nose, he leaned back in his chair, settling in for what he anticipated would be a long night.