The Myth of Coincidence

Genre: Family, with minor humour

Pairings: Sherlock and Sally, background

Main characters: Greg, Sally, introducing OC DS Kieran Bailey, and Michael and Grace Donovan-Holmes

Greg Lestrade remembered the moment his long-held disbelief in coincidence had been solidly confirmed.

It was the same moment he realized that all of those regularly scheduled first aid courses, which included classes on emergency childbirth, were something that he had been wise to pay attention to, even though in the back of his mind, he wanted to disregard them as a worthless paid filler, and the odds of ever needing that information were astronomically low.

When his newest team member arrived to New Scotland Yard, taking the place of Sally while she was on mat leave, and reported to him in his office, there was something about Detective Sergeant Kieran Bailey that struck a memory, somewhere in the back of Greg's mind.

He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but decided that whatever it was, it would come to him when the time was right. Perhaps it was the name… perhaps it was something about his face… or maybe it was simply something in his personnel file about Dartmoor.

"Detective Sergeant Bailey reporting for duty, Sir," Kieran had said, smiling, and perhaps unnecessarily saluting.

"Calm the formalities, Bailey," Greg smiled. "I only care that you do your job and do it well. Remember your training for now and follow my lead until you find your footing. You've already got your legs or you wouldn't be here."

Bailey smiled, relaxing somewhat. When his superior invited him to sit down, he complied. He would soon learn Greg Lestrade's ritual of having a little introductory chat with his new team members.

Over the years, Greg had learned that getting to know them a little bit before taking them out for a test drive was a wise course of action. Learning about them, their strengths and what part of the process they leaned towards had always benefitted him and allowed him to direct his team in a way that maximized both their individual skills and their effectiveness as a whole.

"Kieran, you say, eh?" Greg said. "Not a common name in these parts, is it?"

"No, Sir. Not surprisingly it's Irish," the younger man laughed nervously.

"So where are you from, Bailey?" Greg asked, sitting back in his chair, smiling warmly. "Everyone has roots, after all."

"Oh, well it's a bit of a story, Sir," he replied. "I'm from the Dartmoor area, and would you believe I was born out on the edge of Dewar's Hollow. Mum tells me it was a young off-duty uniform from London who found her when she became stranded, and when she went into labour, he delivered me. I guess he had quite the memorable holiday out there."

Greg nodded slowly, his brows furrowing. The finer details of a memory were beginning to work their way to the front of his mind.

No, it couldn't be. There was simply no way. It couldn't be possible. What were the odds?

"Indeed. Your mum," Greg said, slowly. "Her name wouldn't be Colleen, would it?"

Bailey's eyes widened briefly. "Yes, Sir. How did you…?"

"Did she happen to mention or remember the name of the young officer who delivered you?"

Kieran Bailey shook his head, thinking. "Yeah, but I don't recall it. I believe it was French, though. And she said he mentioned while they waited for the ambulance to arrive that he said he was about to take his exams to join the Met CID, though he was on holiday when he found her."

Greg nodded. "And how old are you, son?"

"Twenty-seven three months ago, Sir. Why?" Bailey was beginning to wonder at this strange line of questioning, though he had a feeling that it definitely wasn't a typical path of "getting to know my new team member" that his new boss was taking.

"Your middle name. Wouldn't happen to be Patrick, would it? Kieran Patrick Bailey, born along the treeline of Dewar's Hollow, delivered by a Met Sergeant with a French name…?"

Bailey's eyes grew wide. "Sir? Inspector Les…trade? Forgive me Sir, but… holy shit. Are you serious, Sir?"

Greg grinned as the pieces snapped together. "Serious as a heart attack, son. I've wondered over the years what became of you. Delivering babies is not a typical duty for a Met officer so we will tend to remember them. It would appear we have come full circle."

Kieran Bailey laughed out loud. "Yes, Sir, it would appear so."

And so it came to pass, that for the second time in his decades-long career, Greg's emergency childbirth classes, a part of their regular first aid certification courses, came in handy.

Only this time, it was, personally speaking, much, much closer to home.

Again, Greg was off-duty. Again, it would be memorable. And again, it would involve a member of his team – although unlike their young DS Kieran Bailey - not one whom he had been the first person to ever lay eyes upon.

Greg also swore that this was a particular view of Sergeant Sally Donovan that he never wanted to see again, and if she ever became pregnant again, to be sure he could book his holidays so as to be far, far away from London whenever she may happen to go into labour.

Sherlock liked to text. Greg was fairly certain he would be satisfied to receive the happy news that way, as opposed to the more literal "hands-on" method that he had just found himself forced into.

It wasn't that Greg regretted being the one to deliver the Donovan-Holmes twins. In fact, he was honoured to have been able to be there for Sally in her hour of need, when nobody else could be, and frankly grateful that his last re-certification course had only been 7 weeks prior to this. He was even grateful for the instructor's joke that it was the little details that counted. Like the person in charge of catching the baby remembering to breathe.

It was just that Sally's high-risk classification, coupled with being three weeks early, and that pesky power outage, not to mention Sherlock and John being stuck in a cab, in traffic, as a result of said power outage, and the mobile network being overloaded, rendering their phones all but useless… had taken the dark hue out of several of what precious few hairs he still had on his head that hadn't already gone silver.

But at least he'd remembered that helpful hint about breathing.

Actually, to be fair, he'd remembered all of the important things too, and he was sure that eventually his fingers, which he'd been sure he'd felt crack under Sally's grip while in the throes of particularly vicious contractions, would one day soon be able to play lullabies on his guitar again. Lullabies were good. Lullabies were quite honestly, bloody handy with so many infants in the house.

By the time Sherlock had managed to arrive with an ambulance, Greg and Sally sat side-by-side, each holding a twin. In Sally's arms the little gentleman, a certain young Mr. Michael Victor John Donovan-Holmes, and in Greg's arms, the young lady who had been made to wait patiently for attention while her younger brother took his time arriving – the distinguished Miss Grace Molly Louise Donovan-Holmes.

"Those handles are bigger than they are," Greg observed, softly. "I swear I haven't seen a more perfect pair of babies since my own, I must say. Well done, Donovan. Very well done."

Sally, exhausted and thoroughly spent, allowed herself the impropriety of resting her head on her boss's strong shoulder. Greg didn't mind – in this moment, he wasn't DI Lestrade, he was simply Greg, neighbour and friend. She simply hummed in agreement with him.

"Thanks, Boss," she managed to mutter. She turned her face to look at him with a tired smile.

Greg nodded in acknowledgement. "You're welcome, Donovan. Don't let this happen again though. That's an order," he said, grinning as he spied the ambulance approaching.