This is the end of this particular road. Thanks for all the feedback, folks!
Chapter 9
12:20 pm, London
Sherlock tried to sit up, too disoriented to focus on anything other than his pounding head. A large chunk of concrete had broken loose from the torn ceiling of the Museum lobby, glancing off his temple. As he gasped for air, his hearing returned with a whoosh. He heard muttered voices, then remembered—Mary.
"Mary!" he choked out, then broke into a coughing fit from the dust surrounding him. He tried to get his legs to cooperate with him in standing to no avail. A hand pressed firmly down on his shoulder.
"Stay there, help is coming." It sounded like John's voice, but there was no warmth in it at all. Not from concern, nor from anger. It was simply flat. The hand moved away and Sherlock slumped back to the floor.
As he struggled again to rise, another hand gripped him, this time helping him to his feet. Greg Lestrade peered at Sherlock's eyes.
"Hey, Sherlock, you ok?" Greg held up his hand. "How many fingers?"
Sherlock swatted Greg's hand away. "Go 'way," he mumbled. "Where's Mary?" Sherlock tried to stagger forward, only to sway dangerously.
"She's fine. Well, not fine exactly, but she will be. Looks like she's gone into labor. A shock thing, maybe." Greg wrapped an arm around Sherlock to support him and they began to move toward the gaping hole at the front of the lobby. Sherlock tried to turn back.
"She's not there, the paramedics are taking her out. They'll get her and John to a hospital before the baby arrives, don't worry." Greg said soothingly.
"Dong?" asked Sherlock.
"Excuse me?" said Greg. "Oh, you mean the shooter. He got a shot off but it went wild—that's what caused the roof to fall in on you. Must have been threatening Mary, but someone took him out before he could do her any harm. Can't imagine who would have had a gun in here." Greg looked meaningfully at Sherlock. He put on the best look of innocence he could muster given his pounding headache.
"Anyway," Greg continued. "The government boys came in and took him away. I assume they'll give him medical attention, but that information was apparently above my pay grade."
Greg didn't look as put out as he might have under the circumstances. From what little he'd gleaned from the MI6 types milling around the crime scene, the shooter had been involved in the satellite disaster afflicting London and other cities. Given the nightmare that had produced, Greg would have been hard pressed to have given the guy a band-aid, much less intensive care.
Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he was squinting against the sunlight, looking for John and Mary.
Greg sighed. "Come on," he said patiently. As they stepped outside the remains of the museum entrance, Sherlock flinched. Greg looked at him in concern, then frowned.
"Your pupils are pretty damned dilated. That better be from the bang on the head, sunshine, and not more drugs."
"Of course it's from my head," Sherlock snapped. "I. Am. Clean."
"Yeah, well you weren't not that long ago, to hear big brother tell it." Greg snarked.
Sherlock just humphed and continued to scan the area for John.
"They'll have gone to the hospital by now, Sherlock. The Royal London. Let's get you fixed up and you can join them."
"I'll just go back to Baker Street." Sherlock said, starting to walk for the curb.
"What?" Greg was incredulous. "Mary goes into premature labor and you're…what, going to head home for a cuppa?"
"I am concussed." Sherlock answered. Seeing that his response didn't satisfy Greg, he continued. "John doesn't need me to worry about. I'll text him that I'll be along later."
Sherlock's excuse was pure nonsense. He'd heard the censure in John's voice when he woke. While it was true that John would understandably be most concerned at the moment with Mary, he'd normally want Sherlock by his side. Sherlock, however, suspected that things were no longer normal between them, that Dong had achieved his objective. Mary and the baby had nearly paid the ultimate price for Sherlock being targeted by yet another madman. John wouldn't be forgiving, not this time.
Greg stared at Sherlock for a few long seconds, then nodded.
"Fine, then. Wait here for a few minutes while I make sure the scene is handed off to your brother's team. I'll run you home."
Sherlock nodded, then stepped away from the crowd of responders to wait for his ride.
On the way to Baker Street, Mycroft texted Sherlock the news that Dong had been shot in the shoulder, relieving him of the gun he'd held, and was being treated under arrest.
HE IS BEING QUITE TALKATIVE IN EXCHANGE FOR EXTRADITION IMMUNITY. HE WAS GOVERNMENT ASSISTED, WORKING WITH OTHERS.—MH
YOU'RE NOT SENDING HIM BACK TO CHINA?—SH
OF COURSE WE ARE. CHINA, UK AND US COOPERATING IN PROSECUTION. NO NEED FOR HIM TO KNOW THAT, NATURALLY.—MH
Sherlock smiled slightly and leaned back into the passenger seat of Greg's car, closing his eyes. Greg gave him a worried glance but, accustomed to Sherlock's silences, drove on.
To distract himself from the pain in his head, he tried to sort out his problem with John. In the past, John had proved to be quite forgiving, eventually. Surely he'd see that Sherlock hadn't intentionally placed Mary and the baby in Dong's path. But there was the matter of him leaving John to go into the museum. John had complained about similar actions in the past, claiming they demonstrated a lack of trust.
Sherlock snorted to himself. He trusted John, it was just that in certain instances, he needed to trust him to stay put. Quick action sometimes required less moral needling. For some reason, though, John didn't see it that way.
When they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock waved Greg off with the barest (and barely sincere) of thanks. Rather than climbing the stairs to 221B, he headed for Mrs. Hudson's flat, using his spare key.
Two hours and a handful of paracetamol later, Sherlock received another text from Mycroft.
BABY BORN. GIRL, 6 POUNDS, 3 OUNCES. NAME PENDING. MOTHER AND CHILD HEALTHY.—MH.
WHY WOULD ANYONE CARE ABOUT HER WEIGHT?—SH
CUSTOM, SHERLOCK. AS IS PINK, IF YOU BRING A GIFT, WHICH I SUGGEST YOU DO.-MH
No answer was given or expected. Moving with a bit less agility than usual, Sherlock departed for the hospital. He followed its signs to the maternity ward, somewhat alarmed at the sheer number of pregnant bellies he encountered along the way. Having located Mary's room, he hovered at its entrance long enough that several nurses began to eye him suspiciously. Just as he finally raised his hand to knock, John emerged.
The two men stared at each other for what seemed like ages.
"Sherlock," said John finally.
"John," Sherlock responded, fighting unsuccessfully to keep the nervousness out of his tone.
"The baby is born. We're calling her Abigail, after Mary's real mother." Despite an understandable giddiness to his expression, John's lips tightened. "They're both fine." No thanks to you, went unspoken but was heard clearly by Sherlock.
"Good, good," Sherlock stammered. "Here." He extended a gift bag full of pink-hued baby goodies. Mrs. Hudson would have to forgive him for confiscating her gift, for which he had a more pressing need.
John's eyebrows shot to his hairline. That Sherlock turned up wasn't a complete surprise, but that he did so complete with a socially acceptable gesture was.
So long did John pause in accepting the proffered gift that Sherlock began to lower it. Realizing his error, John grabbed for it and they engaged in an awkward dance as Sherlock raised then lowered the gift bag. Finally, John snagged it.
"Er, thank you," said John. Sherlock nodded. "Mary is giving Abigail a feed or I'd let you see her."
Sherlock noticed that no invitation for a future meeting was extended. He sucked in a breath and took a step back. Scanning his mind for an appropriate statement, Sherlock settled on "Congratulations."
"Thanks," John repeated, then an uncomfortable silence ensued.
"Well, then," Sherlock nodded down the hall. John didn't answer, and Sherlock slowly turned away.
"Sherlock." He stopped, looking over his shoulder. John's expression bordered on grim.
"Why, Sherlock. Why did you have to go in there alone? If I hadn't gotten there on time…" John choked.
"There wasn't time," Sherlock began.
"To do what? Say, I'm going to do something stupid like confront the bad guy, want to come along? That's what, 5 seconds? Never mind that you put yourself in danger—again—but you couldn't have saved yourself or anyone else against a lunatic with a gun. Something you know I have, and you don't." John closed his eyes, steadying himself. "Five years, Sherlock. Five years we've known each other and I still never know when you're going to just cut me out, not trust me to back you up, or maybe not care enough to let me."
John stepped forward. "And this time, this time, you nearly took everyone I care about with you." He took a deep breath. "I don't know if I can do this anymore." He shook his head, looking for a reaction from Sherlock, who'd gone pale but said nothing.
"I'm going to go be with my wife and child now," John said, turning back to the door of Mary's room. He'd just opened it when Sherlock spoke.
"Look in the bag," he said.
"What?" John turned back.
"The bag. Look inside," Sherlock instructed.
John shook his head again, despairingly. "I'll look at it later with Mary, Sherlock. We have lots of gifts."
Sherlock winced at the slight, then gestured to the bag. "Please," he said. "Just look."
Sighing, John shoved aside the bright pink tissue paper lining the top of the gift bag. He pulled a floppy pink stuffed kitten from inside then paused. Slowly, he drew out a manila envelope marked "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson." He met Sherlock's eyes, a question in his own.
"Read it," Sherlock said.
"This isn't the time-" began John.
"Please," repeated Sherlock.
With another sigh, John said, "Still not a magic word, Sherlock, but ok. Let's go over there," John pointed toward a vinyl covered bench in the hallway.
The men settled themselves on it and John placed the gift bag beside him. He turned the envelope over in his hand.
"You want me to read it this time?" John asked, in more of a statement than a question. Sherlock nodded.
Tearing open the envelope, John pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to read. When he'd finished, he sat for several moments, holding the sheet in his lap.
"Why did you show me this, Sherlock?" he asked quietly.
Sherlock shrugged. "I trust you," he said simply.
John stared at him for a second, then looked back at the paper. Sherlock continued.
"There's more," he said. "I thought she was pregnant. I let her leave anyway."
John looked back at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. "Was she?"
"No, or so Mycroft says. I didn't follow up." Sherlock's eyes strayed to a window and stayed fixed on it.
John folded the paper and put it back into the envelope.
"If I thought that Abigail existed and I'd missed having her in my life, I'd never forgive myself," he said. Sherlock flinched.
"Yes, well," he said. "I think we've established that I'm not as good a person as you." He stood, brushing his coat down. As he adjusted his scarf, John spoke.
"Sit down, you git. That's not what I meant. It's just that it would have been a shame for there to have been a little Sherlock in the world you never knew about." Sherlock stared, horrified at the thought.
John grinned slightly. "And she didn't exactly beat down your door to stay in touch, either, did she? You were eighteen, Sherlock. Even genius eighteen year olds do stupid things. Sometimes really stupid things," he said.
Sherlock smiled back, relieved. "Sometimes genius thirty-nine year olds do stupid things, too," he answered.
"Oh, now I know the world is coming to an end," snarked John. "Sherlock Holmes, admitting to idiocy."
"I admit nothing," Sherlock responded. John rolled his eyes, then sat smiling at Sherlock for a few moments.
"Come on, let's go introduce Abigail to her godfather."
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"If you're going to tell me you didn't realize that we'd ask you to be her godfather, you really are an idiot."
Sherlock looked at John, then a grin slowly spread across his face.
"Don't tell my goddaughter," he said. "But if she's as smart as her parents, she'll figure it out on her own."
John grinned back and slapped Sherlock on the back. As they went into the room, the TV in the hallway flickered to life. A reporter standing in front of Parliament began to speak.
"London celebrates the return of her transportation and communication systems today. Life is returning to usual."
~Fin~