Author's Note:

The 100th chapter! I wanted to get it just right, so I apologise for the delay in delivering it.


Chapter 100 — Congratulations, By the Way

Sherlock lifted his coat from the hook on the back of the living room door with stealth-like precision, while keeping one eye on the supine figure of his jailor. As he slipped his arms through the sleeves, he watched as the D.I. rolled to his side. Lestrade's snores momentarily ceased as he adjusted to the new position on Sherlock's sofa, however, they once again increased in volume and intensity as deep sleep reclaimed its hold.

Mrs Hudson's finest sherry had done the trick. One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked into a rueful smile. It was quite handy that Lestrade had the sort of job that necessitated a fix of alcohol on a regular basis, and even more so tonight with Culverton Smith's confessions entering their third day. Here was Sherlock Holmes, abstaining from mind and mood-altering chemicals, while gently encouraging the misuse in others.

As he snuck out of his flat, Sherlock took stock. He was perfectly fine, if anybody cared to ask. A headache was his regular companion, but that would fade in time. His face and ribs were still a bit tender. He hoped his appearance wouldn't be too alarming for Rose, especially his left eye. At least he was upright and moving around. But what he wouldn't do for a smoke, though. He patted his pockets, a reflexive gesture. He wasn't really going to indulge. If he was giving up Class A drugs, he may as well toss in the minor ones as well.

It was a twenty minute walk to St George's Fields, stretched into thirty minutes when Sherlock factored in the need to elude his brother's CCTV network. Half an hour was a good amount of time to get his mind and emotions in order. Statistics were against him; he knew that. The chance of Rose having already given birth had risen to about fifty percent. The fact that her reply to his voice message was fairly innocuous weighed in his favour. But how could he escape his captors if she went into labour at any given moment? Mycroft said Sherlock would be under supervision until the end of the week at least.

Depending on good behaviour, he mindfully added. The last thing he needed was to be caught sneaking out in the middle of the night as he was doing right now.

As Sherlock neared Frederick Close, the laneway that gave him access to St George's Fields, he hesitated. Desperate for a fag now. Should he detour to Crispins? Wander back along Seymour Street? It was nearly midnight. What would be open? Sherlock took in his options in both directions, his heart drumming a military tattoo in his chest.

What if Rose was upset with him? But her message: Visit when you can, meant she was fine, surely. She clearly acknowledged the difficulty he faced leaving the flat to see her. There was no anger in the words. No dismissals. No rejection.

Emboldened, Sherlock once again about-faced. He strode determinedly through Frederick Close before fear and doubt could take control. Holding his fob card in front of the reader at the end of the lane, and waiting til the light turned blue, he reminded himself that paranoia and depression were part and parcel of detox. Sherlock slipped through the gate and took the gently meandering paths to Rose's building block.

Once outside her door, he drew in a calming breath.

Right then. In we go.

Standing in the tiny hallway with the stairs rising up to his left and the living area straight ahead, Sherlock strained to make out the bobbing shadowy figures across the room. Adrenaline shot a course through his veins. Intruders!

But… why didn't they come any closer? Or make a noise?

Sherlock stepped into the living area and fumbled for the light switch.

WELCOME HOME! yelled the bunting.

IT'S A GIRL! BABY GIRL! CONGRATULATIONS! chorused several pink and silver balloons.

Sherlock froze, staring wide-eyed. The balloon in the shape of a pink baby's foot continued to dance, obviously prodded by the air currents that had snaked in through the door when he had entered the flat.

He dragged a hand across his mouth. He was too late! He had… he… had…

Sherlock flicked off the light, not wanting to be taunted a moment longer by the gleeful floating exclamations. He used the wall to steady himself in the darkness. His breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening.

Dear God, he was too late. Rose would never forgive him. He'd missed the birth of his baby daughter! He wasn't there to support Rose in labour! The most important day of his existence!

He turned for the entrance door, staggering a little, before grabbing the stairwell banister for support. As his chest heaved, the air took on an eerie quality. The presence of another life. A tiny bundle who was now a separate entity. Upstairs with Rose. A life he was partly responsible for.

His own inadequacies weighed heavily on him and Sherlock was momentarily paralysed with fear. His mind refused to offer him a decision. Flee or continue on? Sherlock gazed upwards at the darkened stairs. As if by his thoughts alone, the stairwell was suddenly emblazoned in light. Tentative steps sounded above him.

"Sherlock?" came Rose's voice seconds before she appeared on the landing, halfway down the stairs.

His heart melted at the sight of her and he straightened up. Her hair, tousled from sleep, fell about her shoulders, a salmon-coloured tank top accentuated her much smaller baby(less?) belly, and, curiously, she wore his own pyjama pants. She caught him staring at the pyjama bottoms and ran a hand over her hip.

"They're more comfortable than mine at the minute," she said, smiling sheepishly. She'd stopped on the landing, her expression soft, her eyes glistening with what Sherlock could only guess was affection.

"Are you coming up or leaving?" she asked, wrinkling her brow a little.

"Sorry," he said, his voice rasping slightly. "Did I wake you?"

Sherlock didn't believe he'd made any noise at all in the time he'd been moving about downstairs. Perhaps Rose was already awake and had seen the light emitted from the living room in the few seconds Sherlock had switched it on.

"Bob texted me," she replied, continuing her slow descent without taking her eyes off Sherlock. "He said not to be alarmed if I hear anyone inside, but the front door's been unlocked and the fob card reader on the eastern gate had been triggered by your card three minutes ago."

It took a tenth of a second for Sherlock to understand how that kind of information had been retrieved. And for Sherlock, that length of time was a bit on the slow side.

Once upon a time, when making plans for Rose to temporarily move back to London, Sherlock had instructed the Wilsons to install extra security in and around her flat in St George's Fields. It looked like Bob had hacked into the private estate's own security system as an extra precaution. Good man.

"Let me guess," Rose went on. "You've just seen the balloons and you're in a state of a shock." She pulled up a couple of steps in front of him, her eyes studying his face.

"A bit," he managed to say.

The smile grew on Rose's face, confusing Sherlock. What did she make of his facial injuries?

Instead of commenting on them as he had expected, she offered her hand and said, "Come on."

Sherlock let Rose lead him upstairs. His head buzzed with a multitude of thoughts. Didn't she know what he had done? He had chosen drugs and a case over what they had together—yes, perhaps in an effort to "save" John Watson. But Sherlock had pushed Rose away, ignored their plans for the future, and didn't think about the arrival of their baby! And what's worse, he'd confessed to murdering Charles Magnussen!

They reached the landing, and Rose stopped outside the door to the nursery. Her eyes shone bright, the same smile playing on her lips.

"Rose," he said. His guilt had formed her name on his tongue and pushed it from his mouth without permission. He didn't actually know what to say next when her eyes become more rounded. "I'm... I'm sorry."

She tightened her grip on his hand.

"I know you are."

"And I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"Who says I forgive you?"

His eyes widened. It was worse than Sherlock thought. He had been wrong to get his hopes up as they had climbed the stairs. Rose was going to chuck him out any minute now.

"But of course I do," she added.

"I've behaved appallingly."

"You pushed me away because you thought you knew what was best for me." She stretched out a hand and rubbed his arm. "I did the same to you not that long ago, remember? I almost didn't tell you I was pregnant until you deduced it." Rose paused to reinforce her smile. Sherlock's heart beat was erratic. "I think we've both learnt a lesson here," she continued. "Not to make decisions on each other's behalf, don't you think?"

Sherlock blinked and bowed his head a little in agreement. When Rose reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand, he shut his eyes to feel the full effect of her soft touch, his breath shuddering on the way out.

"I'm sorry about the surprise," she said, lowering her voice. Her thumb lightly skimmed his cheekbone. Sherlock met her gaze once more, even though he could feel his own eyes stinging. "I was in two minds about telling you," Rose went on. "Bit upset after my last visit to Baker Street… but Justine knocked some sense into me. And I wasn't expecting you for a few days."

Sherlock's throat constricted at Rose's mention of her last visit.

"I'm glad you came," she said.

Rose slid her hand to Sherlock's nape, bringing him towards her so she could capture his lips with hers. They were soft and gentle and a warmth flooded through him. His heart lifted. He'd forgotten how safe and secure she made him feel. It was like being wrapped in a familiar blanket. He drank her in, her patient and tender kiss firm but not too unyielding. But before Sherlock could part his lips in response, she drew back.

"I love you," she whispered.

The intensity of emotion came at him in waves, threatening to engulf him and pull him under, but he held back tears using the last of his strength. He went to open his mouth to respond in kind, but Rose, her eyes fixed on his, said, "Congratulations, Sherlock. You're a dad."

It hit him like a sledgehammer. Sherlock choked out a sob and gathered Rose in his arms. He seemed to collapse inwards, burying his face in her neck. He trembled and shook as both shock and relief twined inside him. The label of "dad" gave him a title, a duty, a responsibility, but more importantly the message of acceptance and forgiveness on Rose's part. He held her fast while her arms encircled his neck. She rubbed a soothing hand over his nape.

"We're going to be okay," she whispered.

He didn't feel okay.

Her breath cooled his neck and she remained silent for a time. Rose moulded perfectly into him. Sherlock couldn't let her go. The battering of emotions began to subside, yet he still clung to her. His breath caught and he released it in an unsteady stream. This was what was missing from his life these past few weeks. How could he think life would be better without her?

Sherlock could feel self-doubt and loathing draining away, but he grabbed them back before lifting his head from Rose's shoulder.

"If you knew the things I've done…" he began, drawing back so he could meet her gaze. "The things I'm capable of…"

"I know, Sherlock. I know all of it. And because of that, you deserve more of my love, not less."

His head buzzed. She knew all of it? All of what? He could feel his throat constricting and he stopped breathing. Had Justine told her about the others? But what about…

"Magnussen," he said.

Rose slowly nodded, her eyes searching his.

"You just went the wrong way," she said, a doubtful smile flitting across her face. "You can make it right again, by how you live your life from now on."

She was so forgiving. Sherlock felt buoyed only a little by her words. Self-loathing was still trying to pull him under.

"I missed…" He drew in a steadying breath. "I missed… our daughter's… birth."

"You didn't miss much, honestly." Her mouth eased into a smile. "And she's barely three days old and only just starting to get interesting." Rose's eyes glistened with affection. She was trying to make him feel better. He knew she was lying. "Do you want to meet her?"

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. Rose's smile widened.

"Isn't she asleep?" he asked. "When does she normally wake up?"

"This is our first night at home. We don't have a 'normal' yet."

Sherlock stared at the closed door, panic rising inside him.

"I… don't want to wake her unnecessarily."

"She'll be fine."

Rose's hand was on the door knob, her expression soft and encouraging. Sherlock gave her an imperceptible nod.

His heart rate began to accelerate as the light from the stairwell spilled into the room. Rose entered and held the door ajar for him. Sherlock's limbs were stiff and awkward and he felt he had to concentrate to coordinate them when he crossed the threshold.

Rose stayed by the door as Sherlock approached the cot. She had closed the door a little, leaving enough light to see by.

Sherlock looked down to see…

…a baby.

He didn't know what he had expected. But there she was: a tiny bundle dwarfed by the now seemingly enormous cot. A blanket stretched wide over her body, tucked in firmly on either side of the mattress. One hand, with delicate fingers, was visible above the edge of the blanket. It had worked itself free of the swaddle—Sherlock could imagine the process—and it was clenched in infantile triumph. Her cherubic face shone in sleepy repose, and the soft pout of rosebud lips could be seen in the half light. Sherlock's heart stuttered. He had created this… well, he'd had a hand in creating this. Not so much a hand, more like—

"This is Grace," Rose said in a half-whisper. She had come up beside Sherlock and had slipped her fingers through his.

He curled his hand around Rose's, not daring to breathe. Clinging for dear life, perhaps.

"Would you like to hold her?" she asked.

"No."

He felt, rather than heard, Rose chuckle. Didn't she realise how inadequate he felt in that moment?

She released his hand and reached out for the cot. Sherlock stepped back, giving Rose room to raise the rail, flick the catches aside, and then gently lower the side of the cot.

He watched as Rose lightly tugged on the blanket to loosen it. He relied on mental telepathy to communicate his protests. Don't wake the baby! Not on my account! Who was he to disturb such an innocent, peaceful sleep?

Rose had scooped up the precious bundle and stood before him, presenting their baby to him.

Sherlock's arms felt gangly and uncoordinated. They hung uselessly by his side and he didn't know how he should receive her. His daughter. A faint smile played on Rose's lips as if she knew what was going through his mind.

"This is Grace," she said, as if he hadn't heard her the first time. "Your daughter."

Sherlock lifted his arms. They felt heavy and foreign, and in that moment, it suddenly dawned on him how John Watson had felt around Rosie. Woefully inexperienced! And he could hear his own voice saying, "Oh, for Christ's sake, John! She's not made of glass!"

Rose gently placed Grace in his arms. Sherlock was sure the loud thudding of his heart alone would wake her. He held her a little away from his body, but she felt lighter than he had expected. Then she began to squirm! She hated him! Little arms struggled to work free of the swaddle. Her lips parted and creases appeared in her brow. What was he supposed to do now!

"You can rock her if you like," Rose said.

But Sherlock's muscles had tensed and he froze, watching helplessly at the swaddling blanket coming loose. Soon arms would be free… and they'd feel the cold air!

But the first tiny cough in protest snapped Sherlock out of panic mode. He rearranged his hold, cupping her precious head in his hand instead of the crook of his elbow, and he brought her body to nestle against his chest.

"We'll have none of that," he said to his daughter. "I'm your daddy, and you don't fool me for one second." He lifted her to him and pressed a soft kiss to one chubby cheek.

He looked up when he heard a sniff from Rose. Silent tears had pooled in her eyes.

"Come on," Sherlock said, turning for the door. "Let's go and make Mummy a cup of tea."

.


Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed that! I loved writing the end bit in particular, with Sherlock almost back to his old self. More happy times to come! Please review! I love reading your thoughts.