That Which We Call a Rose
Sequel to the previous. Same rating, same warning for mpreg (nothing very graphic) and some language.
" 'Tis all the curry's fault," Lestrade repeats doggedly, and has to bite on his breath as the next contraction tips him forward. Sweet Jesus on toast with marmite. To think of all the things he's done on that very chair, with or sans his feet up the desk, with or sans Sherlock's long form pretzelled around the back. Eaten, slept, wept, crashed down – loved.
And now entered labour.
"Curry, my sainted balls." Gregson, pressing back on his shoulders none too gently. "Look at you, nine months gone and looking like you swallowed Arsenal's signature ball, what business d'you have in here? Shh, save your breath. Yeah, Sal got yours, didn't text back because she's out in some arsepocket in Hackney, arresting that bloke. Well, twin. Hope for your sake Holmes deduced the right one."
From where he sits, Greg can spot John and Anderson, both flush-faced from the heat of their ongoing debate and, in Doctor Watson's case, a little extra incentive. They don't seem to have made much progress since John waddled in from his night out with a hearty "God, I'm so pissed. Where's the gravid dad?" Now Anderson is waving his arms, abject horror written all down his long face, mumbling that he never volunteered for this.
"Of course I've got the right man. Greg, your DCI says congratulations, and not to forget the health insurance form..."
Ah. The office door has now swung open on the tall, dark, pink form of the other expectant father. Who, sensing that Anderson might, after all, be his coworker for that night, has taken compromise to an unheard-of level by consenting to don a plastic head cap. You do the crime, love, you gotta do the time, Lestrade thinks with a hissy chuckle that draws everyone's attention back to him. Drat.
"... and registering form, and there's one for paid parental leave, and the Met's childcare options, and..."
"Attention, please! Will everyone in the force kindly step back, we're going for a peridural." John, it seems, is enjoying much too much his role as Anderson's executive coach. Judging from Anderson's face, it is obvious that he's only doing this so he can order Sherlock about.
"Oh," Sherlock is murmuring, his voice an oblivious hum as he drops the paperwork and bends over Greg's belly. "You have a coffee-bean navel!"
... Well, it was fairly dark in the Morgue that day. And Sherlock prefers to do it by night, so Greg swallows the tease and smiles up at him instead.
What seems like hours later, he is still smiling between two howls. Sherlock has taken to counting prime numbers aloud and backward from 971, though whether to give Greg a new focus or quench his own panick is unclear. Someone's brewing coffee in Donovan's office and the smell is unexpected support, though he suspects he will pay for it dearly once his girl is born.
C'mon love, he wills himself to think, and feels Sherlock's hand tighten over and around his, echoing his call. We need to part, you and I, so he can see you. C'mon, sweetheart. I'm sure you got his legs, too. Give us a kick.
"Almost there." John's voice is admirably steady, leading Greg to wonder just how many births took place among the Fifth Northumberland Fusilliers. The Old and Bold, eh. "You're doing fine, Greg, just keep breathing."
'' 'Lock – Sally –"
"Right here," another voice chips in, and Sally somehow coalesces behind the crime scene tape – oh, clever, Toby. She's wearing a head cap too, and if Greg's errant sight can be trusted, dusty pink suits her best. "Freak nailed it again, sir – it was Julian, not Marco. He confessed straightaway."
"Did you – ah – pull him in?"
"With all due respect, sir" – Anderson is fairly sweating between his legs, a situation that Greg promises himself will never be renewed, however extended his family turns to be – "now is more about pushing".
There is a sudden flare of pain, as if the lower part of his spine had been unzipped with unnecessary force, only to falter and fade out as his ear catches a sound. The sound is not unfamiliar – he's heard it at intervals before, on the silver screen, at family dos, and even once on his webcam, when his favorite cousin moved to Sidney with kith and kin just before her third. But this is entirely fresh, a brand new breath being shaped and chased tentatively in a small mouth, and for one moment, it becomes his breath, his beginnings; a pattern inverted as he commits his life, both their lives, to hers.
Sherlock is silent at his side. Then Greg feels him shift and fidget, and knows, before the pull it takes to move his head, that he's been given their child to hold on the crook of his arm.
"Morgana," Sherlock says quietly.
"Mordag," John corrects, adding for a bemused Donovan: "Scottish for Sea Warrior. And before you or anyone else asks, MorMor is a no-no."
"If there's any justice in this world" – Jesus, even Anderson's voice sounds sweaty – "she should be Metropolita."
But Greg cuts them all, his face tilted aside as he looks at Sherlock's intent, hesitant gaze, and the little face like a smooth furled rose against Sherlock's elbow. "... Miracle."
There is another, enduring silence. Greg lets it encompass everything that's good and great in the scene – down to Sherlock's hand, never letting go, as if their daughter was a new gravitational force and Lestrade a time-honored piece of ballast.
Her sound and their stillness reach out to form his peace. Life has been shared; sleep can become; Greg lets the name usher him into repose, Sherlock's lips silent against his brow.
[Author's note: in case anyone wonders what the poor kid was called in the end, my headcanon has finally settled for Miranda.]