Chapter 7: The Genius and His Darling Girl

There is an uncomfortable tension in 221b. John has continued to stand guard at the window while Sherlock and I are cuddled together on the couch: he lying on his back, me lying beside him with my head resting on his chest. The room is eerily quiet. The three of us don't dare to speak; what is there to say, really? Each of us is in our own state of thought about what has happened but just can't formulate the words to express it. I listen to my husband's rhythmic heartbeat as he gently rubs his hands up and down my back. Although my eyes are closed, I'm trying my best to fight off the exhaustion that has finally hit me after today's turmoil. I can't fall asleep now, though, Sherlock needs me. Even though he won't say it, I know that this whole ordeal is affecting him, right to his core.

To be called a fraud is ridiculous! What reason do the police have to make that kind of accusation? Ugh, it makes me sick. Sherlock has worked so hard to become the detective that he is and it is simply just isn't right to place this accusation on him. If Moriarty is behind all of this-which wouldn't surprise me-then he has gone way too far. Sherlock's reputation could be destroyed out of this rumor, and then…God, I don't even know what he would do with himself. His work is his life; without it, he wouldn't have a purpose. Sherlock would have to resort to being 'normal' which simply isn't who he is.

Then there's this weird article coming out: 'The Truth About Sherlock Holmes'; that Kitty Riley woman Sherlock had mentioned during the trial had written this exposé. But he didn't give her an interview, so who's her source? The teaser is stating that it's someone by the name or Richard Brook but I have never heard of him before, most likely some local creep who just wants his fifteen minutes of fame. How annoying.

"John," Sherlock whispers, thinking that I'm asleep, "I need to ask you something?"

"What is it?" John replies half-heartedly

I feel my husband's chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh: "You have always been good to Elfie and I," he goes on, gently kissing the top of my head, "and, as I've stated before, I consider you a friend…my best friend, really. I have never had one of those before, which should come as no surprise."

"Sherlock, what are you getting at?" John asks, sounding worried, "Your not sounding like yourself."

"John, with these accusations toward me becoming public knowledge and should things…turn south, I want you to watch over Elfie and the child. I need them to be protected; they are my family and I don't want them harmed in any way."

"Sherlock, you're talking like your never going to see them again. Lestrade isn't going to arrest you. He…He wouldn't."

"You saw the look on his face, John; he has no choice in the matter. If they were as stringent to the rules as they claim to be, Lestrade and his team will be speaking with the chief superintendent right now and getting a warrant for my arrest."

"Well, if they are going to arrest you, they might as well take me in too." John replies in his military voice, "I was with you on most of these cases so it would make sense that they take me in as an accomplice. I'm sticking by your side, Sherlock and help with…"

"No John, not this time." Sherlock quickly interrupts, "This time, you have to protect her. I have to go alone."

I hear John take in a deep breath and I have to use all my strength not to burst out in tears. Why is Sherlock talking like this? He's acting like he's given up. He can't; this is just some trick Moriarty's playing and he can beat him. He always does. This isn't the end. It can't be.

"John, I don't care how people react to me," Sherlock goes on, "I'm use to coldness and petty insults. But I don't want any of that affecting my wife and child. They don't deserve it and, Elfie…" he pauses for a moment and I feel his chest rumble with a small chuckle. "She wouldn't be able to handle what they'd say about me. Probably, fight with every reporter she came across with her bare fists. She has a big heart, John, you know that; she cares too much, she always has. She's always cared for me and I've always held her in very high regard."

He places a soft kiss on the top of my head and starts to run his fingers through my hair; "I love her, John." He says, allowing sadness to seep into his voice, "and I can't loose her. That is why you must promise me that you'll protect her and the child."

"Sherlock, mate," John replies, "I don't know why your saying this."
"John, promise me." Sherlock just repeats, sounding very serious.

"Of course," John sighs heavily, "you have my word."

"Thank you." Sherlock says, quietly, before placing another kiss on top of my head. Just then, John's phone starts to ring.

"It's Lestrade," he says, stepping out to take it, "maybe he's managed to cut you some sort of deal, or something."
"Doubt it," Sherlock grumbles in reply. He then hooks one of his arms around my shoulders and the other under my knees. Very carefully, Sherlock rises from the couch and carries me to the bedroom. I cuddle up close to him in his hold, as if to still be asleep, and keep my eyes shut. We reach the bedroom and Sherlock gently lays me down on the bed. "My darling, darling, girl." He whispers, leaning in close and brushing some stray hairs out of my eyes, "You heard all of that didn't you?"

I can't help but sigh heavily; Of course he knew I wasn't asleep…and yet he said all of that to John anyway. Slowly, I open my eyes and look at him. Despite the small smirk that he gives me, Sherlock seems so sad and worn out, like this has all been too much on him.

"Sherlock," I say, reaching up and stroking his cheek, "honey, why…"

"Don't. Just…don't." He sighs, sitting down beside me and taking my hands into his own, "You must understand that I don't want to leave you."

"Who says that you're going too? Look, this is all just some big misunderstanding. Your not going to jail and I'm certainly not going anywhere. We're an 'us' remember? There is always one with the other."

Sherlock smiles and massages my knuckles: "Elfie, you know exactly what's going to happen. Lestrade is on his way over here to arrest me and I'm going to have to go with him."

"No," I quickly sit up and wrap my arms around his shoulders, "I won't let it happen. Sherlock, you can't leave me. You…you promised you never would." Tears start to well up in my eyes and I hide my face on his shoulder. This isn't happening; is he giving up? No, he can't.

"Shh, it's alright." He coos, holding me in return, "I'm going to fix this, I promise you." Sherlock squeezes me even tighter and starts to rock me back and forth; "Listen carefully to me, darling." He whispers in my ear, "They're going to take me in and I need you to stay in the bedroom, alright? Don't try to fight or argue or anything like that; just stay in here. I will come back for you, okay?"

"Come back?" I sniffle, still not lifting my head from his shoulder, "But…if they're going to arrest you, how are you going to escape?"

"Don't tell me you've lost faith in me already?" he teases, "Come now, Elfie; I'm me, remember?"

I let out a small chuckle and hold him even tighter; "I'll never loose faith in you," I whisper, placing a soft kiss on his neck, "No matter what the police say or what that article claims, I know the real you and I love you."

"Oh, I love you too." He says in reply, tangling one of his hands in my hair, "my darling, darling…wife." We sit there in silence for countless minutes. I don't want to let him go and it feels as if the idea is mutual. Oh God, how I just wish we could stay like this forever. No police, no cases, no Jim Moriarty: Just each other, that's all I want in life.

I just want Sherlock.

"Hamish." He suddenly whispers and I lift my head to look him in the eyes; those mesmerizing orbs are not red from held back tears.

"Hamish?" I ask

"If it's is a boy," he explains, looking down at my stomach as if he can see the baby already, "can we call him Hamish? It's John's middle name and-well, he jokingly mentioned it once to me, but I sort of…liked it."

I chuckle and let a small smile escape my lips: "Hamish Holmes." I say, drying my eyes, "It does have a sort of ring to it. But it's a bit early on for baby names, Sherlock, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock chuckles and cups my face in his hands: "I love you, Elfie Marie Holmes and I always will," he says, brushing my excess tears away with his thumbs, "You have brought out a side of me that I never knew existed and, for that, I am forever grateful. This child, our child, is the most wonderful gift you could ever give me and I…I can't wait to meet them." His voice cracks a bit as he says that and he quickly closes his eyes; "I'm sorry," he says, composing himself, "I didn't mean to be…I mean, I didn't want to get so…"

"Emotional." I finish for him. We lock eyes and laugh like we always do. Sherlock then brings my lips close to his and we exchange the deepest kiss either of us has ever experienced. I wrap my arms around his neck as he gently lays me back down. When our lips finally part, I look into those mystifying eyes of his and sigh: "I don't want you to go," I say, brushing my fingers through his curls, "it's not true what they say; You're not a fraud, you're a genius, my genius."

Sherlock smiles down at me and strokes my cheek: "And you are my darling girl who has always believed in me." He replies, "I'll come back to you, I promise. Now, go to sleep. You've had a long day."
I sleepily nod and close my eyes. Sherlock pulls the covers up over me and places a soft kiss on my cheek: "I love you," he whispers before getting up and exiting. I hear the door click shut just before I slip into a much-needed sleep.

I awake moments later to the sound of commotion coming from the living room. Worried, I quickly get out of bed and head to door. Sherlock's words suddenly play back in my head:

"…I need you to stay in the bedroom…"

I should've asked him why, but it's of no matter now. If Sherlock wants me to stay put, I will. Still curious though, I creak the door open a bit and look out with one eye. I can't see any more than shadows, but certainly hear raised voices:

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

"He's not resisting."

"It's all right, John."

"He's not resisting. No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous."

"Get him downstairs now."

"You know you don't have to do..."

"Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too."

I put a hand over my mouth and close my eyes tight. This is a dream-no, a nightmare-this can't be happening. Sherlock was just arrested on accounts that he couldn't ever be guilty of doing. I'm angry, upset, and sad: I'm an emotional roller coaster, just wanting to stop and be done with it. This whole ordeal needs to be over so that these ridiculous accusations can just go away. God, I hate this.

Suddenly, I hear a loud thud and Mrs. Hudson give out a small shriek. I snap out of my misery and return to my look out position.

"Sir! Sir! Are you alright?" I hear Donovan ask; She would be here. Come to watch "the freak" get what he deserves. She's such a bitch.

"NO I'M NOT! ARREST THAT MAN FOR ASSULT!" a loud, bellow, unfamiliar voice demands.

"I'll gladly go, you bastard!" John hisses. Oh, God, John what did you do? You can't leave me as well.

"Alright that's it, come on then." Donovan says and within seconds I hear some shuffling and John (I assume) being escorted out of the flat. Not wanting to stay on the sidelines a moment long, I quickly exit the bedroom and head toward the living room. My eyes immediately land on Mrs. Hudson quivering and sniffling in the doorway, watching as Donovan and another officer (I'm assuming it's the man John has just assaulted) escort Dr. Watson out of 221b.

"Oh, oh Elfie!" Mrs. Hudson cries, noticing me and wrapping her arms around me in a hug, "I just don't know what's happened. Poor Sherlock! They must be confused; he's done nothing wrong! Oh it's just awful!"

I hold her in return and try my best to hold back my emotions. She's right; this is awful. Sherlock is no criminal. This all Moriarty's doing; it's all part of his plan to break Sherlock. In my heart I know that Sherlock will do whatever is necessary to make this right and get his life back on track, but part of me wonders if that's even possible. There's a twinge of doubt inside me saying that perhaps there is no coming back from this. Maybe this is the end.

No, I don't believe that.

I can't think like that.

When we finally part, Mrs. Hudson dries her eyes on her white robe sleeve and motherly pats my shoulder: "I'll make us a nice cuppa, dear." She says, heading down to her flat, "I…I don't know what else to do."

Suddenly, we hear the ringing of gunshots coming from outside. We quickly sprint to the window and pull back the curtains to watch the chaos below. Sherlock is standing in the middle of the street, a gun in one hand and-Is John handcuffed to his other hand? I can't hear what he's saying but it seems like Sherlock is making some sort of declaration. He holds the gun to John's head and starts to back up toward the corner.

"What is he doing?" Mrs. Hudson says, setting a hand on her heart.

Just then the light bulb goes off in my brain; "Playing the part," I reply, "He has to escape, which is the unexpected move." A small smirk grows across my face and all my worry disappears: Oh, my clever husband, look at you. You're going to beat this, just like I knew you would. "Run, Sherlock," I whisper, placing my hands on the glass, "Just run."

Almost like he could here me, Sherlock turns his head and looks up at the window. He sees me and gives off a small nod. I nod back and blow him a small kiss. In the blink of an eye, he and John take off down the street in a blur. The police officers stand there dumbfounded for a few moments but then quickly gather together to go after the boys. I notice Lestrade, looking around in slight confusion but obviously buying time; he wants them to escape, I knew he didn't believe Sherlock to be a criminal. He too looks up at the window and sees me. With a nod, Lestrade squeezes through the crowd and heads back into the building. Moments later, Mrs. Hudson and I hear him coming up the stairs.

"You wouldn't happen to know where they're going do you?" Lestrade asks, sheepishly, once he reaches the living room.

"Even if I did, do you really think I'd tell you, Greg?" I reply with a small smirk.

The detective inspector chuckles slightly and runs a hand through his grey hair nervously; "Look, Elfie, this whole mess." He tries to explain, "I…You know that I didn't believe it for one second."

"I know," I reply, giving him a nod.

"And Sherlock-God, I mean, he's a bit of a nut, but he's a good man. I've always believed that."

"I know."

Lestrade then gives me a stern look: "If he should come back here tonight, you know to see you or something," he says in a low voice, "well, I won't know it, will I?"

I give off a sigh of relief; Greg wants to help despite his responsibility to the Yard. Sherlock always said that he trusted Lestrade and now I fully understand why; he's a good man.

"Thank you," I reply, "Truly."

"Hey, I don't know what you're talking about," he says modestly, heading out again, "Just stay safe, alright? And if you see Sherlock…tell him to be careful."

"I will."

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I tossed and turned all night causing myself to become tangled up in the bed sheets. What with these early pregnancy aches and the unknowingness of where my husband is, it's no surprise that I can't relax. Every time I slip into a deep enough sleep, I wake up to the sound of Sherlock's voice in my head. I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling, taping a light beat on my abdomen. Words can not describe how badly I want to just pick up my phone and call Sherlock: asking where he is, tell him I love him, just hear his voice so I know he's okay. He said he'd come back to get me, so where is he? I need him. This unnecessary separation is too much.

A memory stirs in my mind. The first time we were apart after becoming a couple: Baskerville. He came by my office before he went to the train station, leaving poor John to wait outside for an hour. I smile as our farewell conversation plays back in my mind:

"Be safe."

"I will."

"Text me when you get there?"

"Of course."

"And don't get into too much trouble."
"I won't."

"Seriously, if there's some government conspiracy going on, then-"

"Elfie, are you going to keep mothering me, or can I just kiss you and be on my way?"

I gently place my fingers over my lips as if to recreate the feeling of Sherlock's lips against my own. God, I miss him. It must be the pregnancy that's making me so emotionally, but, truly, I need to hear from him. Is he okay? Did he find someplace safe to stay? Where is he?

Suddenly, my phone-which has been set on the nightstand just in case-lights up and vibrates. I quickly sit up and grab it. Tears of relief fill my eyes as I read over the text message:

'Taxi's outside. Come as quick as you can-SH'

Without so much as a double take, I leap out of bed, dawn my oversized grey sweater and black slip-ons then rush out of the bedroom. I grab my keys and satchel off the coat hanger and quietly tiptoe down the stairs. Once I'm outside, I notice that the police cars have dispersed and there is only one car on the street: a black cab waiting for me.

"Taxi for Mrs. Holmes?" the cabbie asks from the drivers seat and I give him a nod. He motions his head to climb in the back and I do so. Much to my relief, there is my husband waiting for me. Our eyes lock and I practically leap into his arms. Sherlock holds me close and places a soft kiss on my cheek. We don't speak, but I don't care. I'm just happy he's okay.

I am vaguely aware of the door being closed and us getting on our way: "Where are we going?" I ask, finally lifting my head from his coat.

"St. Bart's." Sherlock replies, staring straight ahead, "It's the safest place I know."

"But…what about the flat? Will we ever be able to go back to Baker Street?"

"You will."

"Why not you?"

Sherlock doesn't reply; his hold on me just tightens as he places another kiss on my cheek. There is a sort of tension in the air. Something isn't right, I can tell. I can see it in those eyes of his that there is something he doesn't want to tell me, something big. What is going on in that brain of his, now? Things can't get any more badly than they are now. Deciding not to press the matter, I just nuzzle my head back on his chest and cuddle up as close to my husband as possible.

We arrive at the hospital and quickly get out of the cab. Sherlock doesn't pay the cabbie, but he does whisper something to him before we head inside the building-most be someone in his network. Sherlock then turns to me, takes me by the hand and escorts me to the lab. The hallways are creepier at night and it is eerily quiet, almost like something out of a ghost story. I latch onto Sherlock's arm and rest my head on his shoulder for comfort.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" I ask as we near the lab doors, "Where's John?"

"I don't know. We separated for a bit." Sherlock replies, opening the surprisingly unlocked lab doors and guiding me inside, "Besides, I need this time alone with you."

"Why?" I ask

Sherlock flips on the lights and tosses his coat and scarf aside. He walks a few steps in front of me then pauses: "Because I don't know when I'll ever get the chance to ever again." He breathes out, running his hands through his hair.

Taken back by that statement, I toss my bag atop his things and cautiously step in front of him so that we are eye to eye. "Wha-what is that suppose to mean?" I ask, now feeling extremely worried, "Sherlock tell me what is going on."

Sherlock takes in a heavy breath and looks me in the eyes. For the first time, I can see defeat in his gaze. He's worn out, tired, reached his limit; He can't go on with this. Right now, I don't care what brought him to this point but I do understand why he brought me here. He needs my comfort.

"Elfie," he says in a quiet whisper, "I…I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of this game and I want to end it. Moriarty has my whole life story and is using it to fuel his lies. Everything I've worked for, the reputation I've built for myself, the person that I thought I was, has all gone to ruin and it will go downhill from here. I'm not giving up, I promise you that, it's only…I need to end this, Elfie, but I just can't seem to bring myself to do it." Sherlock quickly looks away from me and sinks down to the floor with his back pressed against one of the lab benches; "I'm sorry if I've failed you." He says, resting his forehead on his knees, "I'm sorry I'm not the man you thought you married."

My heart is aching and I can't help but cry. I've never seen him this broken, this lost…this emotional. This man, the strongest, most brilliant man I've ever known, has reached his breaking point His whole world has come crashing down on him and all I can do is sit down beside him and tell him I love him. He needs to know that, he must know that.

"Sherlock," I breathe out, cupping his face in my hands, "honey, look at me." I gently turn his head so that our eyes lock; "It was never your reputation or your work that made me fall in love with you," I go on, gently intertwining my fingers in his curls, "I fell in love and married the man Sherlock Holmes, not the consulting detective. If you were just some regular, god forbid normal human being that worked a 9-to-5 job, I'd still love you. It doesn't matter to me who people think you are, because I know the truth: I know the real you. Our child-our baby, Sherlock-they are going to know all about the wonderful things you've done and all those people you helped. They are going to look up to and see that their father is a great man and no one, not even all the papers in the world, are going to convince them otherwise."

Sherlock closes his eyes and allows a tear to roll down his cheek. His normally stone cold face softens as he drops his head atop my shoulder and just silently cries. I've only ever seen him cry once before, after we had an argument, but that wasn't nearly as emotional as this. These tears aren't just sad tears; they are his release of all the suffering and emotions he's kept inside.

Gently, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head atop his messy mop of curls. He holds me close and nuzzles his head into the space between my neck and shoulder. We remain like this for what feels like an entirety; I don't want to ever let him go and I believe the feeling is mutual. Sometimes, I wish we could back to our honeymoon; the time where no cases, no work and no god damn Moriarty would bother us. I guess I have always wished for the simpler life with Sherlock, but that's just not who we are.

And I truly wouldn't want us any other way.

"I should message John," Sherlock mutters, finally lifting his head from my shoulder and sitting up straight against the bench, "He's probably wondering where I am." He dries his eyes on his jacket sleeve then looks at me with loving eyes: "I will never forget what you've just told me." He says, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me in close, "For a moment, I had forgotten that I had you by my side, no matter what."
"Of course you do, you crazy bastard, I love you." I sniffle, resting my head on his shoulder now.

Sherlock chuckles and pulls out his phone. He sends John a quick text message then turns his attention back to me: "Do you remember when we met?" he asks, setting a hand over my abdomen, "The first thing you said to me after saying hello? We were talking about your dialect and I said that I knew 'a lot about everything'. You then asked me why would I need your help if I already knew everything?"

"God, yes, I remember." I say, feeling slightly embarrassed, "I was trying to come off as cool and collected, but what ended up happening was me sounding like an idiot."

"Oh, I don't think so, darling," Sherlock coos, rubbing his hand up and down my arm, "on the contrary I found it quite-what's the word? Adorable?"
"Sherlock Holmes, you have never used the word 'adorable' in your life."

"I have. I just did."
I playfully roll my eyes and cuddle up close to him. At this moment, it doesn't feel like we are hiding out in a lab. Right now, everything seems to be back to normal, if only just for a brief moment; "Do you know what I remember about that day?" I ask, tangling his hands in mine, "I remember you telling me that I shouldn't wear glasses because, and I quote: 'they don't complement your exquisite facial features that well, but more importantly they are blocking the shine of your emerald eyes.'"

Sherlock lets out that deep baritone chuckle that I love so much; "God, I wasn't being subtle at all, was I?" he asks, "You have to remember, I had never felt like that before and I was confused, to say the least. I let my words escape me and I wasn't thinking properly."

"You can just say that I took you by surprise," I tease, "It's much easier."

"But you did. You had my heart from the moment I met you, it just took me far to long to realize it." Sherlock and I lock eyes and my heart fills with love for this man; "I've never been a sentimental man, Elfie, you know that." He goes on, "But I want you know-I need you to know, that from that day forward, you were the only person who could make me feel emotion and act, well, less like a machine and more like a human being, to be honest. You have given me so much that there isn't enough time to thank you for it. I'm a better man because of you, Elfie Marie…and I love you."

We give each other a deep passionate kiss. Time stands still and just for this moment, the world is right. I love this man more than I can possibly say and there is nothing that will tear us apart. Ever.

As our lips slowly part, I notice the silver band on Sherlock's left ring finger. "You're wearing your ring." I say, leaning back against his chest, "I thought you'd left it at home."

"Never," Sherlock says, studying our intertwined fingers, "I may not always wear it, but I never leave it at home. I'm your husband; that's what this band stands for, yes? So why would I leave it behind?"

"Why, Sherlock Holmes," I tease, "I do believe you have become a sentimental man."

"No, not sentimental. Just in love with you."

Lots of feels in this chapter, guys, I needed to just get them all out. I think it was because one of my friends and I were talking about Third Star over the weekend and I started crying (I mean, come on. How can you not?) If you don't know what I'm talking about look it up, watch it, cry, then get back to me. I'll be here for hugs and tissues.

ANY WAYS!

So…we know what happens next. Sorry…not my fault.

Reading back what I wrote, I realize that I may have set up things a bit differently then I had planed but don't worry. I can still do my original idea with Elfie and…what am I saying? Spoilers!

Thanks as always for the favorites, comments, follows and all that wonderful stuff. This story is shorter then my first one and I took a different approach when writing it, but your guys' support makes me feel like I'm doing something right.

Once again I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks!