The power of three

Chapter six

with thanks to Honourable for grateful help in editing and altering this chapter.

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Four days after Mary had returned from her mother's bedside in Bristol, a brief call from her hospice brought the news of her mother's death. The shock and Mary's already worn condition brought on her labour a full month before her due date and her call to John had him rushing from his surgery to meet her at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Getting Mary admitted and settled had taken precedence. Their arrival at the maternity wing and Mary's assessment seemed to take forever. It was only when she was in bed, her anxiety beginning to abate and she started making progress, that John felt he could John turn his attention to notifying Sherlock.

Sherlock had told him he wanted to be at the birth—he had insisted, actually. All typical Sherlock but now that the time for Mary to deliver had come, the fact John had still not told his wife of Sherlock's genetic contribution bedevilled him. Mary had had enough on her plate, first with her mother's illness and lately her own discomfort as the pregnancy progressed. Recently John had picked up on the intermittent tremor she feared was the onset of her mother's condition in her. He had tried to reassure her but he feared the stress of her mother's illness and decline and the demands of pregnancy were taking their toll. John desperately hoped it was psychosomatic but as the signs developed, he had grown more convinced of what they indicated was happening to Mary's nervous system and he feared it was not in her imagination.

All through the pregnancy she had been firm she did not want to know who the other donor was; she had explained, reasonably at the time, it was so that she and John could more easily accept that the baby was theirs—completely. Mary had been so strong in her belief about this that John found he could not tell her about Sherlock. He feared if he told her now it would upset her and complicate her labour.

Putting these legitimate concerns aside, John fell back on the excuse all husbands and soon-to-be fathers have used: Mary was of paramount importance, especially now. He would tell her, just not now. After the birth, John told himself, you will see everything in the rosy afterglow of new motherhood, Mary. He could tell her then, when he hoped her joy in their child would mean she could forgive him anything.

That's what he hoped, fervently. Still, his implicit lie ate away at him, for he knew his wife could easily take it the wrong way once she knew the truth. It would not matter that eight months on, it was a fait accompli. John was not blind to Mary's jealousy and resentment of Sherlock's place in their lives. Irrespective of that, she would just have to accept this. She would see Sherlock in the baby, yes. Eventually, when the shock had passed, she would simply have to see past it, see that Sherlock's gift made it possible for them to have a healthy baby at all. And John hoped she would see him, as well, and love this baby because it was her husband's.

Once Mary was settled, John turned his attention to the stickier problem of Sherlock Holmes. He didn't know how he could sneak Sherlock into the maternity ward seeing he had no legal right to be there. In no legal sense, but ethically, certainly, he recognised this was Sherlock's baby, too. The nightmare of sorting this out was just beginning and John realised how much he had compounded the problem by not addressing it when the IVF procedure had been attempted and succeeded. From this point on the problems would only proliferate—there was going to be hell to pay and he would be the guilty party, caught between the Scylla and Charybdis of his wife and his friend.

Returning to Mary's room from having notified Sherlock of her status, John found she had refused Demerol and was using gas and air. He held her hand as she screamed in pain. He had brought children into the world himself and he had also seen some terrible complications in Afghanistan, when they were looking after a civilian group near Basra after a Taliban attack. He could not help but think of an Afghan woman in a sorry state trying to give birth in a house on fire. Mortar bombs had been exploding all around them. And you wonder you have PTSD? He had seen some dreadful things. He had helped that woman alone and felt so alive there; life and death so close to each other, within a hair's breadth.

Mary looked up so see a fond smile on her husband's face as if he were reliving a treasured movie. A contraction ripped through her body. She screamed in pain. 'Let it out' they had told her at the ante-natal classes, vocalize your pain. Why was John being distant? She felt the pain enhancing her irritation at his lack of support.

"John, what's the matter? Why are you smiling at a time like this? With me, screaming at you, telling you all sorts of things", she panted. Her brow was slicked in sweat. "Why aren't you telling me to push? That's what they do in the films."

"You aren't dilated enough love. You just keep screaming at me. That's fine, just let it out like they said."

"You're loving this aren't you? The pain, the conflict? Well, here's me letting it out, you bastard!" She shouted. Another wave of pain cut through her and she found her normal inhibitions totally ripped away. "You spend all your time with that Sherlock, instead of me, what do you two get up together anyway? Why were you sleeping over there when I came home anyway?"

John seemed almost to be enjoying her pain. "You are loving this aren't you John? " What the hell is wrong with you that you enjoy seeing me suffer like this? She thought.

John put on his conciliatory tone, "I didn't know you were back, darling. We had just come from a case and wanted to talk about it."

He kissed her hand. "I love you so much, so you carry on honey, get it all out. Soon be over. You know you can say anything to me, don't you, I can take it; and I know you don't mean all you are saying. It's good to let it out. I've heard everything possible from mothers giving birth in my time; I bet the midwife has, too. It's ok, Mary. Shout. Scream; hit me if it will help with the pain."

"You want some more gas, dear?" The midwife asked.

She panted again. "Yes", she said. She took a breath then the contractions started again. She dug her nails into his hand until the blood welled up.

"You doormat!" she shouted as the pain hit. "You don't even answer back; you didn't even really want a child after all, did you?"

"I did, my love. This is the best thing in the world and I love you so much for having my baby." He held onto her hand, while the midwife found a dressing for him, cleaned his wound and applied it.

"I am not a doormat, Mary, neither Sherlock's or yours, I know you are in great pain, and there was no need for this, Mary. You should have taken the pain control. It would have been better for you and the baby, less stress, what's all this natural rubbish?"

"This is my baby, John. I want it my way. We can forget about the third person, it's not even as if I know who it is."

"But I do," he answered her charge and looked at her meaningfully. This was it, the moment! He took a breath, and leaned towards her.

"Well I told you not to tell me, didn't I?"

He was suddenly wrong-footed; surely she would want to know. He had almost told her, but he felt he could not go against her wishes now.

A phone rang and midwife picked it up. She laughed softly and put it back in its cradle on the wall.

"Excuse me, dad," the midwife said.

John looked round at the fifty-ish midwife and smiled at the unexpected Irish accent.

"What?" he asked. "My name is John, the baby is not born yet." He hated the tradition of midwives calling the father 'dad' when the child was not yet born. How would one of them apologise for the awkwardness and pain of addressing a prospective father with that term only to find his child had been still-born? It was more than silly; it could be hurtful, devastating.

"There is a younger man than yourself, da.. Dr Watson, pacing about the corridor outside—says he is with you and he wants a word."

"That better not be Sherlock, John, and you are not going on a bloody case with him or I will scream the place down," she panted, threatening him even as she waited for the next contraction to hit.

"He says he's the daddy, he wouldn't have got admitted to the ward otherwise," the midwife stated. She looked curiously at John.

"Bloody typical, why he can stay away?" Mary groaned, partly in pain, partly in frustration with just a tinge of rage coming through.

John looked at his wife. He considered for a moment, then got up..

"I'll just be a moment honey, alright?" He started for the door

"No, it bloody isn't! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" she filled the room with the cries of pain and writhed as another, closer-together contraction, ripped through her.

"I will be back as soon as I can," he promised.

"Don't bother, Doormat," she addressed her husband sarcastically as the contraction subsided and another immediately began to build. "If he says he's the father, tell him to come in instead."

John hesitated, "Would you mind if he did?"

"Johnnnnnnnn!" she screamed, but he could not tell if her agony was from the next contraction hitting her hard or at his own obtuseness.

"OK, be back in a tic." He ran out. And almost bumped into Sherlock who was hovering by the door.