~ Epilogue ~

It was all his mother's fault, Sherlock thought, as he poured himself another wee dram. Carefully. He was seated at the dining room table, but was slumped over it, half lying on the white linen, steadying himself against the solid surface as he concentrated on his task. It was Scotch whiskey, his father's favorite, thirty years old and obscenely expensive. His mother would murder him if he spilled a drop, she had a streak of frugality in her that seemed more than a bit strange in one born to affluence, and would have no sympathy for him in spite of the fact that his Molly might die. His mother was a cruel and unusual woman, a mathematics scholar in her youth, and she still thought like a bloody machine (though in truth he'd admired that in former days - how ignorant he'd been).

His father was more sympathetic. His father was drinking, as well, though with rather more restraint, every sip alternating with worried looks cast in Sherlock's direction.

And Mycroft, but he was keeping to wine, sphinxlike as ever, save for the grim set of his jaw and the occasional flicker of eyelids. Not entirely unaffected.

Mycroft had seen Molly, too, when he'd come up to the room to drag Sherlock away. Had seen how she was suffering, though she'd still been gallantly pacing the room up to that point, only pausing every few minutes to brace herself against him, tense and panting each time a contraction assailed her, though never a sound out of her, not so much as a peep, then still trying to smile up at him as it eased and they'd continue on, back and forth, back and forth, across the vast expanse of thick Turkey carpet, they'd done that for hours today, and the pale sun shining absurdly through the tall windows as though nothing in the world were amiss.

Molly.

His Molly.

Enduring God knew what torture up in the guest room, the most luxurious bedchamber in a house full of luxury, Musgrave Hall, where he had been born, and Mycroft before him, and their sister Eurus after, who had died untimely. An old grief but still raw.

God, he hated this house. Had hated school as well, with all its people.

London was home. London was where his son should have been born. London was where they should have stayed.

But they had not. His mother had decreed that 221B Baker Street was no fit place for a lying in, and Molly had (reluctantly, he liked to think) been persuaded to spend the last month at his parents' country estate. They had arrived just before the holidays - which had been satisfactory, what with the Watsons joining them for Christmas (how was it little Rosamund and Edward always seemed so much more agreeable than the Cavanaughs' infant brigade; Molly's assertion that he barely knew the latter was true enough, but giving them the benefit of the doubt with a father like Cavanaugh? Unlikely.) And Mrs. Hudson had come, too, bringing him several dozen of her exquisite mince tarts and scoffing at his worries.

"She'll be fine!" Hudders had said. "Molly's young and strong, she'll come through with flying colors. You'll see!"

But just because she was young and strong didn't mean she wasn't suffering.

It didn't mean she couldn't die.

He watched with fascination as a tear rolled down and dropped from the tip of his nose onto the tablecloth, then remembered his mother's unnatural attachment to the yards of pristine linen and moved his half-full glass over three inches, covering the spot.

Sat up. Ran a hand through his hair.

It seemed ages since they'd thrown him out. The midwife had been appalled at his presence from the start, though Molly had made an effort to persuade her of the necessity. But much later, the doctor had been called in, and had joined forces with the midwife and Sherlock's mother - his own mother! - and had finally convinced Molly that Sherlock should be ejected from the room, would only be in the way. Naturally he had argued, his points not only valid but very reasonably presented, considering the strained circumstances, but Molly had become a little agitated, and finally his mother went to the door and shouted for Mycroft.

Sherlock had objected to this development in the strongest terms, but his mother had said, "Enough, Sherlock! You are upsetting your wife, not helping her. Now go downstairs where your obvious apprehension will not be a distraction to her as she labors to bring your child into the world. Mycroft, here! Take your brother away this instant!"

They were all against him, all but Molly, but as he'd turned to her one last time as he was virtually dragged from the room, even she had given him a look that told him they must bow to the inevitable. Then her expression had suddenly changed to one of agony, the door had closed between them, and he had heard her first cry, faint through the heavy wood.

Mycroft had gripped his arm before he could rush back in. "No, brother! Let her get through this!"

And Sherlock had managed to turn away, somehow got down the stairs to the library and sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, just as he'd seen Ashworth do months ago. Though Ashworth had actually witnessed his son's birth, stayed with his Lucinda in that final hour.

At some point, Sherlock and Mycroft and their father had moved to the dining room - as though any of them were hungry. The dishes on the sideboard lay barely touched. And there was no clock. "What time is it?" he suddenly asked hoarsely.

Mycroft pulled out his watch. "Nearly four."

"Two hours," Sherlock said, despair flooding his soul. "Two hours since I came down here." Tears stung his eyes. "And twenty since it started."

"Courage, son," said his father, and somehow he was there, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "These things take time. Hopefully it won't be too much longer."

That was the very definition of a forlorn hope, when every minute slowed to mock one with its tortuous component seconds.

But then, after approximately ten more of those terrible minutes had passed, the double doors of the room suddenly swung wide and his mother walked briskly in, beaming and carrying a small, neatly-swaddled bundle. "Sherlock, come and meet your son!" she announced joyfully.

He ignored her, his heart in his mouth and his stomach roiling as he scrambled out of the chair (so much Scotch may have been a mistake), shambled past her at a lope, then ran, past the astonished footman, straight across the wide foyer, and then up the stairs two at a time (more efficient than three, he'd done the research when he was fourteen)..

There was a maid coming out of their room, carrying a big bundle of linens, and she gave an indignant squawk when Sherlock (somewhat precipitately) moved her out of his way. And then he was in, and there was Molly, tucked neatly into bed, the vast expanse of it making her look so small and still and pale that he suddenly froze and just stared, terrified...

But the doctor said, "She's very well, Mr. Holmes, came through like a trooper," and the midwife gave an exasperated sniff and groused, "Did you even look at your son? Oh, very well, go to her - but softly, mind!"

He did go to her, his heart's darling, and sat gingerly down on the bed beside her. And, miraculously, she opened sleepy eyes - she had apparently been dozing - and a flush of pink suffused her cheeks.

"Sherlock!" she breathed, a contented smile curving her lips..

He found that he could not reply, words choked him, his vision blurred, so he laid his head down against her blanketed side, struggling to gain command of his emotions.

"Sherlock!" she said, again, concern in her voice now, and she moved a little, onto her side. With a gentle touch she caressed his wild hair, and his cheek. But then she spoke again, and there was laughter in her voice: "Have you been drinking?"

He looked up at her from where he lay, his eyes swimming, and croaked, "Of course I've been drinking. What did you think?"

"Well, I have never seen you overindulge, my dear, so I think I may be forgiven for being surprised. But truly, it all went very well! Did you see him?"

Sherlock, momentarily at a loss, replied, "See who?" Then, suddenly remembering, he added quickly, "Oh! The baby. Yes, my mother had him and was vastly pleased. But I wanted to see you."

"Oh, Sherlock!" she said, a combination of laughter and exasperation. "Let me kiss you."

He moved so as to oblige her, closing his eyes and savoring the delicious, lingering contact. Then she began to laugh again and said, "You taste of whiskey!"

"Course I do, had about half the bottle. M'father's favorite. Are you certain you're alright? I was so afraid for you and… and felt so damned useless!"

"I know, and indeed I am sorry that your last view of me was so shocking. I became distracted, and then that contraction came on suddenly - or seemed to - and I could not help crying out. But all in all it was less difficult than I had anticipated… or… well, feared, you know. But perhaps you can stay with me throughout next time, since we will both know more or less what to expect."

"Next time!" Sherlock said, raising himself on his elbow and glaring down at her. "You're already speaking of a next time?"

"Not right away! In a year or two," she said, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "I will give you a chance to fully recover, I assure you."

And at that he threw himself down again, saying ruefully. "Listen to me, going on like a lunatic." But then suddenly looked over at her and added with some severity, "Understand, wife: I will not have you worn down with excessive childbearing."

"Yes, husband," she said, meekly.

He narrowed his eyes, not so easily taken in as he'd been in former days.

But then his mother entered the room, the neatly wrapped bundle in her arms now squalling. "I believe he may be hungry again, Molly. Sherlock! What on earth are you doing?"

"Loving my wife," he said, succinctly, and Molly chuckled.

His mother, however, merely raised her brows. "Sherlock, is this the time to overindulge in drink?"

"It's precisely the time," he replied. "Or it was. And it was your fault to begin with, you had me thrown out!"

"Sherlock!" Molly protested as the midwife began to help her to sit up in order to arrange some pillows behind her.. "That's no way to address your dear mother! She was the greatest comfort to me in that last hour, and I am persuaded she only had my welfare in mind when she asked you to leave."

"She didn't ask me, though, did she?" Sherlock said sulkily, tossing a dark look at his son's grandmother.

She was standing calmly by, on the other side of the bed, ready to assist Molly, and she'd put her little finger in the baby's mouth for him to suck on, to quiet him, and now she began to coo, sing-song: "Yes, that's right, my darling, your brave, pretty mama will soon be ready for you, and then your naughty papa will get what is coming to him, won't he, yes, indeed, he may be all of thirty-six years old but he can still have his ears boxed by his mama, can't he, my sweet boy?"

Sherlock's eyes widened at the pointed glare she flung at him, and he struggled to sit up a bit and scooted closer to the protection of his wife, who was now giggling.

"Coward!" his mother accused, continuing to glare.

"Yes, Mummy, anything you like," Sherlock said with a sigh of surrender - and to his relief, she almost smiled at that, and the glare softened..

Molly said to her mother-in-law, "Please forgive Sherlock, ma'am. I'm sure he will apologize when he is more himself." And she reached out to take the baby.

Sherlock settled down amid the pillows - there seemed to be a great many of them on the bed now - and watched Molly put the baby to her breast with the guidance of the midwife, who said, "Ah, the little master has a good latch there!" Molly had winced a bit at first, but then grew more relaxed and smiled down on her son - their son - with such contentment, and such a warm look in her eyes that he was strongly reminded of numerous paintings he'd seen over the years, and thought he now understood why the subject was so often rendered by the great artists.

And then there was the scientific aspect…

"He seems to know exactly what to do," Sherlock murmured in wonder.

"Yes, indeed," said the midwife. "It's quite instinctive."

Possible experiments began to drift through his head. Some research might be in order - though he feared Molly might object to anything overt. He would have to cautious. Not too obvious.

What was that word of Mycroft's?

Ah, yes.

Slyboots.

o-o-o

Some time later, Mycroft and his father came upstairs, too, to peek in and see for themselves how Molly had fared. They were both stunned to find her peacefully holding her now-sated baby, while the child's father lay beside them on top of the bedclothes, snoring.

"They're both asleep?" Father said with a chuckle, for it was obvious that Molly had come through the ordeal with her spirit intact, unlike her querulous and now, apparently, incapacitated husband..

Mycroft, however, was not amused. "This is outrageous. My dear sister, shall I remove my inebriated sibling?"

"Oh, no!" Molly said. "But if you please, could you put a blanket over him, so he won't be cold.I am very well, and only want a little sleep with Sherlock by my side to make all right again." And she blushed prettily.

Mummy took the baby from her, and carried the infant across the room to his cradle, arranged near the fireplace - the cradle that had been Mycroft's and then Sherlock's, once upon a time, fetched down from the attic just last week, thoroughly scrubbed, and adorned with soft new bedding. Meanwhile, the midwife adjusted Molly's pillows so that the new mother might lie down in comfort close to Sherlock, then settled herself in the chair by the cradle, where she would keep watch this first night of the infant's life. Father brought over a quilt and tenderly spread it over the lanky, somnolent form of his younger son, then said a quiet "Good night!" to his daughter-in-law. And Mycroft, after his parents had walked from the room, hand in hand, went about and turned down each of the lamps, then stood for a long moment on the threshold, wondering at the odd sensation within his breast as he looked back at the pair in the bed, their shapes just visible in the glow from the fire.

Happiness?

Quite possibly.

And he found that he, too, could not help but smile as he quietly closed the bedroom door.

~.~