"Sherlock!" Layne screamed as she tried to brace her back against the wall. Feeling the smallest trail of blood run down her legs, she collapsed into an awkward crouch. The base of her back throbbed under numerous amounts of pressure, but nothing compared to the aggravated ripples that shuddered from the large curve of her stomach all the way down to her pelvis. It was an unfortunate turn of events to find herself in labor in the abandoned cellar of a cement factory, but after twelve hours of suffering completely alone, the pain was now too intense to hold much longer. She had heard her brother rushing around the floor above her, the proud click of his heels alerting her. Layne threw a nearby brick against the long barricaded door in hopes of sending some sort of signal. It worked, but she was far from relieved. As she listened to the picking of locks, an incredible pressure settled deep in her core.

"Layne! Thank—what the hell?" Layne was now on her knees, struggling to remove the long wet sweat pants that she had borrowed from John the day before. Tears dared to leave her eyes as she held out both hands to Sherlock.

"Come—here—let me—get—up." Her breathing was unsteady and bold. The shakiness of her limbs had Sherlock lying her back immediately, taking off his jacket as he bundled it up behind her, supporting her lower vertebrae. Holding up two hands as if to warn her, he slowly pulled her trousers off and threw them aside. With as much gentlemanly couth as he could allow her, Layne cringed as he placed a hand just above her pubic bone and pressed down.

"The head is descending. Think you could have chosen a less dramatic entrance for your child?" Layne went to hit him, but was surprised by how little strength she had in her arms.

"Shut—up—AH!—Sherlock, h-help me." He grabbed one of her hands tightly, warming her fingers between his gloves. Helping her position her legs, he gave her an apologetic look before focusing on the task at hand.

"Okay, when I say push, you have to do just that, okay?" She shook her head no, sobbing too loudly for her own pride.

"Sherlo—Oh God!—please, please help me."

"I'm trying to, Layne. You've got to pay attention to me."

"It h-hurts, so m-m-much!" Her chest heaved unnaturally, and fearing she'd hyperventilate, Sherlock moved behind her, bracing her back against his torso. Leaning closely to her ear, his arms wrapped around her comfortably, joining hands once more.

"Listen to me, listen to me, okay? Layne? Breathe along with me, follow my patterns. I can't stay here, I need to be on the opposite end of things to be of any use. For the first bit, I'll stay as close as I can. But you've got to listen to me, for both your sakes, alright? Now, on your next contraction, bear down. It's not going to be comfortable, but I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."

Layne felt feverish, with a sticky cold clinging to her skin. Sherlock's hand went to her forehead, lingering as he gently curled her body forward.

"Ready?" he asked. She could barely nod. With the next harsh pain, Layne cried through her clenched teeth as she clamped down on Sherlock's leather-clad fists. His own body tried to help her stop shaking as his voice urged her to focus all her strength down. Soon the contraction ended and she nestled back into his chest. Taking her pulse, he leaned over her shoulder trying to catch a glimpse at the progress.

"Layne, once more then I have to move." She shook her head in disagreement, curling her fingers into the dusty collar of his shirt.

"D-don't leave me here." He rocked her slightly, shaking his head.

"No, I will not leave you. I'm just going to move. Can you try to push again?" Too tired to argue, Layne felt the fibers of her throat burn as she screamed. Everything was too much to process.

"AAH! Sherlock, no! P-please, h-help…" He carefully lifted her up and leaned her against the wall, ignoring her complaints. Moving between her legs, he could see the barest hints of a head.

"Layne, right now, push."

"N-no…"

"RIGHT now, Layne! Listen to me!"

"Where's John? W-we…he promised…"

Sherlock could barely keep up with her mumblings, only fearing his sister's lack of focus. Placing his palm on top of her foot, he wrangled back her attention.

"I know it hurts. And I know this isn't how you planned it, but it is what's happening. I can only help you by telling you what you need to do, and right now that's to gather your senses, stop playing this up, and push down. Right now, Layne."

Slightly angry by his harshness, Layne nodded once and closed her eyes. Filling her stomach with one breath, she pushed until she was sure the blood in her head would spill out her eyes. The pain grew in strength, until she heard Sherlock announce the head was delivered. An even worse feeling came over her as she felt her skin give under the pressure.

"GOD! Sherlock, oh my god, w-what…"

"I know, Layne. You've—torn—a bit. We'll get that sorted later. I need two more decent pushes and you'll be done."

The minutes dragged on until she lost her vision to fat sweat drops cruising down her forehead. All she had left was the sense of being ripped apart and Sherlock's voice gently coaching her on. Finally, after what seemed like the worst of the moment, the shoulders were exposed and the rest of her son smoothly arrived. Relaxing back on Sherlock's coat, Layne took in gulping gasps. She still harbored a deep throbbing, but nothing compared to what she'd just went through. A dull weight settled on her stomach, only for her to look up and see the charcoal eyes of who was to be Maxwell Chesterson Holmes.

Layne ran her pinky over his sticky cheek as she watched Sherlock tie off the umbilical cord. Finally finishing what he considered to be a decent job, he made his way to his sister's side, looking his nephew over.

"It seems he has all his appendages. Congratulations." His smirk was filled with anxiety and laughter as he took the sleeve of his blazer to clean off Layne's face. Her arm looped over his, bringing him as close to her face as possible.

"I love you, Sherlock. So, so much. Thank you." Rarely was her brother left without a speech, but all he could muster in return was a shy nod. Returning her focus to her child, Layne lightly gripped Max's toes, running them over her fingernails. He was immediately worth whatever sacrifice it took to get him here. She felt nothing of Moriarty in the soft tufts of his black hair, nor in the relaxed curve of his small lips. Max was perfect and just what she needed. Sherlock stood up at the sound of sirens in the distance.

"Will you be okay while I flag them down?"

Layne smiled, "Oh yes. I think we will be absolutely fine."

Layne reclined in bed, one hand in the crook of John's thigh as she remembered the night her son was born. The duvet was completely stripped from their bed after the evening's exertion, but she did find a cool corner of the sheets to drape across her waist.

Having Max had been, up to that point, the hardest accomplishment she'd ever had in life. Now she debated that fact as she tried to conjure up a plan to explain to Sherlock why she was now, in fact, fucking John Watson.

There were a number of excuses she knew Sherlock would reluctantly accept, but acceptance alone wasn't enough. Their lives had been lonely ones, and he was unwilling to put any faith in romantic attachments. Layne had never found herself desperate for companionship, but after waking up to John's creased forehead sleepily resting against her breast, she had to admit it was nice.

John's lips gave a soft huff before he awoke, one hand wiping the sleep from his eyes. Upon seeing Layne perched on her pillows, he apparently shared her sentiment. He stretched his toes and continued to drape his head over her stomach. He found a scar on the jut of her right hip bone and began gently polishing it with his finger.

"Your brother is going to fucking kill me." Layne only nodded lightly in reply, then leaned down to kiss his nose.

"Perhaps, but if it helps, I'm currently trying to conjure up a Holmesian plan to get us out of this."

"Well, let me know how that goes, I'm going to get a shower." Flipping himself rather awkwardly out of the bed, he looked back at Layne, her long limbs almost consuming the mattress.

"Last night," he stated, "It was—well, it could just be a one off, you know. It was great, fine—no, great, but I mean, if you're not looking for anything. It just seems like a strange time to start something. I mean, we are chasing a murderer through Florenc.! Are you sure you want to—you know- keep shagging me?"

Layne raised her eyebrows, trying to shut off any intimate features her face cradled only a few minutes ago. The flowery vision she had imagined between herself and John from last night was trickling out of view. Now very self conscious of her nudity, she groped the ground beside her for some article of clothing.

"No, Doctor Watson, I do not want to, as you said, keep shagging you. I—shit—I think we had different ideas as to what we wanted out of whatever this is." Finding what was surely his jumper, Layne couldn't bring herself to care as she pulled on a pair of underwear and swept her hair from out of the collar of his sweater.

"What does that mean?" John was riddled with confusion as he tried to move in front of the door, her destination. With a stubborn scowl, he darted around his shorter frame and headed for the hallway.

"It means I will be bunking with my brother for the remainder of the trip, and I suggest that you treasure your conquest. Congratulations John, you got to fuck me. You must feel very, very accomplished. Take a shower, then get the fuck out so I can gather my belongings."

Before he could do anything, she had slammed their room shut behind her, only hearing the tail end of what sounded like her name being hoarsely shouted. Moving two doors down, she crept along the dim hallway, hoping no one would see her without trousers, sporting a very unseemly pair of grey knickers. Without knocking, she immediately ran through the entrance and pounced into Sherlock's bed. Her brother had his legs coolly crossed on top of the covers, and was slightly rustled as she jerked the comforter from underneath his frame. Layne buried herself deep inside the fabrics and turned away from him.

"So, I take it the morning after did not go as planned?" His smug tone made her want to punch him in the throat, but all she could muster was a sad whine.

"Motherhood has made me soft, Sherlock. I went too far last night." She felt the side of the bed rise as Sherlock made towards the window, hands tightened behind his back.

"Yes, well, hardly matters now. What you should be concerned about is the fact that we are meeting Moriarty. Tonight." Layne felt her heart move sideways. Sitting up slowly, she stared a hole through his tall frame.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" He sighed in frustration and began striding back and forth like a disturbed stallion.

"A letter was delivered to my door this morning. We shall meet him at 9 o'clock, on Sebastian's property. If all goes as planned, it will be quite an eventful gathering."

Forcing her head onto her knees, Layne finally felt too exhausted to argue. She knew Sherlock's eyes were roaming over her exterior, trying to extract any information that he could use to persuade her to do as told. Instead, he wavered and collapsed into the nearest chair.

"You should have told me about what happened, Laynie." Pulling her head up, she immediately regretted seeing her brother so disappointed.

"So I take it you heard John and mine's conversation "
"Yes, I did."

"And are you okay now?" Sherlock immediately stood, looking as dignified as his horrified expression could allow.

"I'm fine, you idiot. Why didn't you tell me you were—it matters." Layne joined her brother's side.

"No, it really doesn't. It might have three years ago, but not anymore. What's done is done, and I didn't want you resenting Max every time you saw him. I kept it to myself because it was a very private, personal, painful experience and I overcame it. Alone. It wasn't your business, Sherlock. I know you don't want hear that, but it's the truth. This is just a normal human reaction. I was attacked. It hurt, but I'm alive. And out of everything I ended up with a beautiful son! What could have made such a horrible predicament worthwhile but my Max?"

Sherlock knew her smile was genuine, but he still felt rather sickly. It was a game changer, this information, and it gave Moriarty the upper hand. Nodding once, he turned away from her, lost in thought once more. Layne had lived a rather precarious life, but he had never wished her harm on any of her excursions. He knew she had taken lovers on her journeys, and only bits of him were upset, and only because none of them appreciated her as needed.

Layne sat back on the mattress, her legs crossed and cold. Finally, she spoke.

"Well, one of us needs to let John know of the plan. I vote you."

"Oh, hell, are you really going to resent him? Now is not the time to get distracted. Go and apologize to him, or let him do the groveling. Either way, from what I heard, the lack of communication between the two of you led to a disgustingly simple mistake. Fix this, and focus on your son. If something happens to us tonight, Moriarty will surely turn his attention towards Max."

Layne froze her mind, keeping her quiet panic swallowed by her indifference towards surviving. She'd die for Max, she'd let Moriarty wear her to a thin thread if that's what he needed to stay away from their son. Sherlock was right, and so was John. Now was not the time to get involved in another romantic entanglement.

"I'll go get John and put on some proper clothes. I'm telling you now, Sherlock, if he asks for me in trade of Max's security, I'll accept that."

"I know you will, but I won't. Get out. Now."