Two years and six months since the detective fell and John is unbelievably happy.

He has a steady, reasonable income in a job that he doesn't hate. His six-year old step-son is excelling in school and football. And his wife just gave birth to his first, beautiful, breath-taking baby boy. John can hardly talk, he can hardly think, hardly move. He can only stare at his son –his son for chrissake- and smile like an idiot.

It had been an easy pregnancy for Mary - not too painful, not too moody, nothing like Thomas - if not so easy on John, and it had been an easy c-section birth, if really not so easy on John. He's been terrified. From the moment he found out the baby existed, to when Mary had started staying home and eating all the ice-cream, all the way up to when he'd had a fuckingheartattackJesus! because his beautiful child, his little ball of abject terror had decided to be born six weeks earlier than he should have.

Little bugger.

John's still terrified of course, he's no real reason not to be as far as he's concerned. This is more of a challenge than all of Afghanistan put together. His only consolation is that this time maybe he won't get shot, though he's not really certain.

John's terror does not abate when they bring the baby home. It does not stop pulsing through his skull when Thomas wants to hold his baby brother. It doesn't stop flowing through his heart when he and Mary and Thomas sit, cuddled up on the sofa, still trying to think of a name.

The love outweighs the terror though, as love is wont to do. There's nothing he'd rather have in his life than this child. Nothing at all. Not even... but John stops himself before he can finish that thought. He Absolutely Will Not Think Of That. Not when he's sitting here, with his family, just enjoying.

After a couple of days of not being able to think of a name, Mary takes to calling him 'the second born', as does Thomas. John laughs and asks what he's meant to call him, after all, it's his first born. Mary laughs at him and tells him not be an idiot. If John goes around calling him 'first born' he might give the poor lad a complex. John pretends to sulk until Mary comes and kisses him and tells him that not-even-Thomas-sulks-like-that-you-doofus and could-he-make-her-some-tea-thank-you-very-much-love.

It's only at night that John finds himself completely overwhelmed. The second born comes home from the hospital and with him comes the nightmares. The nightmares come a-travelling back and abuse his mind while he sleeps. He dreams of Sherlock, of the fall, of Moriarty and the pool and the blood and the fire and the pain. He wakes sweating, wondering what kind of world he's just brought this child into, whether it can possibly be right to make anyone suffer through what everyone seems to suffer through every fucking day...

He never regrets it though. Not once, not once the second born is back in his arms, breathing and throwing up and just being Absolutely Perfect.

He feels a stab of pain when they begin to seriously consider names. He wants to suggest... He wants to name his son after the bravest, most human human he's ever met. He wants to name his son after the dead man. He wants it so badly it claws at his insides, making the long-forgotten concrete pull at his core, trying to drag him downwards.

Thomas suggests Pikachu and is quickly and quietly discounted for not being a Sensible Person. Mary suggests Cordell maybe, or perhaps Christopher? John opens his mouth. He desperately wants to say it. More than anything he wants to say Let's call him Sherlock. I once knew a man called Sherlock. Let's call the second born Sherlock...

He doesn't.

He finds his mouth making the name Ewan. Finds himself saying that he's always loved that name. He's not lying, but it isn't truth either. Wanting to call the second born Ewan is not truth. It's just fear, fear of the maybes. Fear of the pain that the name Sherlock might cause, of how hard it would be. He'd never forgive himself if he began to fear his son called Sherlock. If he began to hate him for not being the Man That Was and just being the Man That He is.

The risk is not taken. They talk for a few more hours. Thomas is quickly and quietly discounted for not being a Sensible Person and is eventually put to bed. Tea is brewed, sipped and left to go cold. Late that night, in front of the television, they decide on the name Ewan. John wants to take it back, he wants to tell Mary that he once knew this man named Sherlock, and what a fantastic man he was, what a fantastic man he became. John wants so desperately to say Let's call him Sherlock...

He doesn't.


I don't suppose I could trouble you for some reviews, could I? :)